Trench drew his hand away in anger, his patience exhausted. “Jean,� he said harshly, “you’re mad.�
“No!� she shook her head, still pointing at him, “no—it is you!�
She was pointing, her wild young face rigid, as a carriage came toward them. Trench looked up and met the calm gaze of Colonel Royall and Diana, who occupied the back seat. In front, beside the negro coachman, Jacob Eaton leaned forward and stared rudely at the group in the dust.
“What is the matter, Jacob?� the old man asked, as the carriage passed.
The young one laughed. “The old story, I reckon, Colonel,� he said affably, “begging Diana’s pardon.�
“You needn’t beg my pardon. It was Jean Bartlett, pa,� she added, blushing suddenly.
“Poor girl!� The colonel touched his lips thoughtfully. “By gad, I wish I knew who was the father of her child—I’d make him keep her from starving.�
“You do that, pa,� said Diana quietly.
“I reckon the father’s there now,� said Jacob Eaton, with a slight sneer.
Diana flashed a look at the back of his head which ought to have scorched it. “It is only the shopkeeper at Eshcol,� she said haughtily.