“If she married him when he was as rough as you say, and if he agrees to let bygones be bygones, you need have no fear of Mrs. Blake. Only be sure to go into raptures over the baby. Tell her it’s the perfect image of its father.”
“What if it isn’t?” objected Ashton gloomily.
She dimpled. “One must allow for the difference in age; and there’s always some resemblance––each must have a mouth and eyes and ears and a nose.”
He caught himself on the verge of laughter. Her eyes were fixed upon him, pure and honest and dancing 137 with mirth. A sudden flood of crimson swept up his face from his bristly, tanned chin to his white forehead. He averted his gaze from hers.
“You’re good!” he choked out. “I don’t deserve––But I can’t go––when you tell me to stay!”
“Of course you can’t,” she lightly rejoined. “Look! There’s the train coming. Push on the lines!”