Jeannette Vanlief reined in her mare. She looked at Orson Vane; looked him, as much as she could, through and through. Was it all a stupid jest? She could find nothing but dense earnestness in her face, in his eyes. Oh, the riddle was too tiresome, too hopeless. It was simply not the same man at all! She gave it up, gave him up.
"Do you mind," she said, "if I ride home now? I'm tired."
It should have been a blow in the face, but Orson Vane never so much as noticed it.
"Tired?" he repeated. "Oh; all right. We'll turn about. Rather go back alone? Oh, all right. Wish you'd learn to play golf; you really must!" And upon that he let her canter away, the groom following, some little wonder on his impassive front.
As for Jeannette Vanlief she burst into her father's room a little later, and then into tears.
"And I wanted to love him!" she wailed presently, from out her confusion and her distress.
The Professor was patting her hair, and wondering what in all the world was the matter. At her speech, he thought he saw a light.
"And why not?" he asked, soothingly, "He seems quite estimable. He was here only a moment ago?"
"Who was here?" she asked in bewilderment.
"Mr. Moncreith."