But Toby’s enthusiasm was rapidly cooling. The girl breathed a sigh of perfect content. And her heavy breathing was fast making a moist patch amidst the gravel stains on his shirt front.
“She jest loves a feller––”
Toby’s arm slipped from her waist, and a hunted look crept into his foolish eyes.
“An’ she don’t care nothin’––”
The man was suddenly seized with a racking fit of coughing, which somehow jolted the girl into an upright position.
“Course she don’t,” he agreed, when his paroxysm had passed. “Say, you don’t think I got newmony?” he inquired, feeling the need for an abrupt change of subject. “I was allus weak-chested as a kid. An’ talkin’ o’ kids,” he hurried on, in his terror recalling the object of his visit, “guess you ken put me wise.”
“Kids? I wasn’t talkin’ of kids,” protested the girl a little angrily.
She was hurt. Cruelly hurt. All her best efforts had gone for nothing. A moment before Toby had seemed so nearly hers, and now––
“No. I didn’t guess you were. But––that is––you see––”
The man floundered heavily and broke off. His look was one of comical confusion and trouble. So much so that it was too much for the girl’s good nature.