She gave a little start, and went into the tent for another chair. When she reappeared, Palmerston met her at the tent door and took the camp-chair from her hand.
"I want to sit here," he said willfully, turning his back toward the table. "I don't want to talk about the tunnel; I want to turn the conversation upon agreeable things—myself, for instance."
She frowned upon him smilingly, and put her hand to her cheek with a puzzled gesture.
"Have I talked too much about the tunnel?" she asked. "I thought something might be done to stop it."
Palmerston shook his head. "You have done everything in your power. Dysart has been fairly warned. Besides, who knows?" he added rather flippantly. "They may strike a hundred inches of water, as your father predicts."
"I have not been objecting merely to rid myself of responsibility; I have never felt any. I only wanted—I hoped"—She stopped, aware of the unresponsive chill that always came at mention of her father. "I know he is honest."
"Of course," protested Palmerston, with artificial warmth; "and, really, I think the place for the work is well selected. I am not much of an engineer, but I went up the other day and looked about, and there are certainly indications of water. I"—he stopped suddenly, aware of his mistake.
The girl had not noticed it. "I wish I could make people over," she said, curling her fingers about her thumb, and striking the arm of her chair with the soft side of the resultant fist, after the manner of women.
Her companion laughed.
"Not every person, I hope; not this one, at least." He drew the photograph from his breast pocket and held it toward her. She took it from him, and looked at it absently an instant.