The road had left the creek now and following the rising ground lay through a growth of stunted cedars; the stillness was broken suddenly by the full sweet note of a robin.
Rose turned with kindling eyes. “Hark!” she exclaimed softly; “doesn’t that make you think of apple-blossoms? There must be periwinkles somewhere!”
The spell was broken and he smiled, turning to look back for the singer. At the same moment Sandy stopped and pricked his ears.
There was a full sound in the air, a throbbing and buzz of some machine and a big motor-car swung suddenly around the curve and bore down upon them. The road was narrow and both riders had to turn out on to the short turf beside the cedars. The car came on, and then abruptly slackening its speed it stopped a few yards beyond them and some one called to them.
Rose looked back startled and met Margaret’s eyes. Mrs. White was leaning on the door of the car and beckoning to them, her great crimson hat flaming against the dark background. Meanwhile Louis Berkman had slipped down from the farther side and came up to Rose smiling, hat in hand.
“I feel myself as fortunate as Balaam’s ass,” he said gayly, “since I, too, have met an angel in the way!”
“Never mind, Rose,” interposed Margaret laughing; “Louis is a poet and he’s had a terrible experience, he isn’t quite himself!”
“I don’t in the least mind being called an angel; I rather like it,” Rose retorted with amusement; “it is only a little startling. What has happened, Mr. Berkman?”
“Nothing of the least importance,” he answered, a trifle stiffly; “only Mrs. White is laughing at me.”
Margaret still leaned on the door of the motor-car, her face as white as paper against her flame-colored hat, but her laugh was light and careless; the fierce pain tugging at her heart demanded a mask and she wore it gayly and well. “He went to the White House last night,” she exclaimed maliciously.