Dorothy put aside the iron grip of Garry’s arms and her pony reared uneasily. Garry caught its bridle, drew the little mustang up against his gray mare, and looked at Dorothy as though he were ready to begin all over again.
“Garry—don’t!” she gasped. “Don’t you—can’t you—see that Tavia is here?”
“He doesn’t,” sighed Tavia. “But I forgive him even that.”
Garry laughed and urged the gray mare across the road. He held out his hand and Tavia grasped it forgivingly.
“Sorry I didn’t see you right away,” apologized Garry. “You see,” with an ardent glance in Dorothy’s direction, “my vision was momentarily obscured.”
“Not momentarily—perpetually when Dorothy is around, Garry, my lad,” scoffed Tavia. “I’ve watched you when you weren’t looking.”
“Horrors! What spying wench is this?” cried Garry and, looking at Dorothy, saw that her face had suddenly become grave.
“Garry,” she asked, “why weren’t you at the train to meet us?”
“Well, listen to that!” cried Garry looking at his fiancée helplessly. “How could I meet a train when I hadn’t the remotest idea you had taken one!”
“Then you didn’t know we were coming?” cried Dorothy. “You never got my telegram saying when I was coming?”