“I must run like a road-runner,” was the way Webster expressed it.
CHAPTER XVI
DOLORES had been gone an hour before Webster roused from his bitter introspection sufficiently to glance at his watch. “Hum-m-m!” he grunted disapprovingly.
“Oh, I've been here fully half an hour,” Dolores's voice assured him. He turned guiltily and found her leaning against the jamb in a doorway behind him and farther down the veranda. She was gazing at him with that calm, impersonal yet vitally interested glance that had so captivated him the first time he saw her.
“Well, then”—bluntly—“why didn't you say so?”
“The surest way to get oneself disliked is to intrude on the moods of one's friends. Moreover, I wanted to study you in repose. Are you quite finished talking to yourself and fighting imaginary enemies? If so, you might talk to me for a change; I'll even disagree with you on any subject, if opposition will make you any happier.”
He rose and indicated the chair. “Please sit down, Miss Ruey. You are altogether disconcerting—too confoundedly smart. I fear I'm going to be afraid of you until I know you better.”
She shrugged adorably and took the proffered chair. “That's the Latin in her—that shrug,” Webster thought. “I wonder what other mixtures go to make up that perfect whole.”