"I—I'm not," he answered thickly.
"Yes, you are—you're dreadfully cross to me, but you seem to get on all right with everybody else. I don't believe you like me!"
The last remnant of his self-control deserted him. "No, I don't," he said, hotly. "Good God, Beatrice, I love you—can't you see that? Why do you torture me all the time?"
Her face grew a shade paler, and her eyes refused to meet his. She knew she had been playing with fire, but none the less was surprised at the natural result, and was genuinely sorry that she had gone so far. She stared at the Fort, unseeing, and inwardly reproached herself bitterly.
"Beatrice!" he gasped. "Say something to me, can't you?"
She pointed to a cloud of dust in the south-west. "Look, some one is coming!"
"I don't care," he said, roughly, possessing himself of her hand; "you've got to say something to me!"
"I did," she returned, drawing away from him, "I told you somebody was coming. I think it's my relatives from Fort Wayne coming to take me back there."
Ronald turned away, deeply pained, and the pathetic droop in his shoulders got safely through the thorns to the girl's heart. The cloud of dust came nearer and nearer, until at last the rider turned his foam-flecked horse and dashed up the esplanade to the Fort.