"I'm not in love with you, Mr. Hubert—that's all."
"No—you've never got over them things that happened up at Whinthorpe," he said roughly. "I've got a bone to pick with you though. Why did you give me the slip that night?"
He looked up. But in spite of his bravado, he reddened again, deeply.
"Well—you hadn't exactly commended yourself as an escort, had you?" she said lightly. But her tone pricked.
"I hadn't had a drop of anything," he declared hotly; "and I'd have looked after you, and stopped a deal of gossip. You hurt my feelings pretty badly. I can tell you."
"Did I?—Well, as you hurt mine on the first occasion, let's cry quits."
He was silent for a little, throwing furtive glances at her from time to time. She was wonderfully thin and fragile, but wonderfully pretty, as she sat there under the cedar.
At last he said, with a grumbling note:
"I wish you wouldn't look so thin and dowie-like, as we say up at home—you've no cause to fret, I'm sure."
The temper of twenty-one gave way. Laura sat up—nay, rose.