He stopped short, for upon the instant she was facing him, as on that eventful day, scarlet with shame and anger.
“How dare you speak of it?” she cried. “You’re–you’re not a gentleman!”
Before he could reply, she turned and left him, walking rapidly and with her head held high. Blake stared after her in bewilderment.
“Well, what in–what in thunder have I done now?” he exclaimed. “Ladies are certainly mighty funny! To go off at a touch–and just when I thought we were going to be chums! But then, of course, I’ve the whole thing to learn about nice girls–like her!”
“I–ah–must certainly agree with you there, Blake,” drawled Winthrope, from beside the nearest bush.
Blake turned upon him with savage fury: “You dirty sneak!–you gentleman! You’ve been eavesdropping!”
The Englishman’s yellow face paled to a sallow mottled gray. He had seen the same look in Blake’s eyes twice before, and this time Blake was far more angry.
“You sneak!–you sham gent!” repeated the American, his voice sinking ominously.
Winthrope dropped in an abject heap, as though Blake had struck him with his club.
“No, no!” he protested shrilly. “I am a real–I am–I’m a not–”