“If you continue criticising my habit—” she began, impatiently.
“No—not for a minute!” he cried. “I didn’t mention your habit or your stock—”
“You are always bewailing that soiled sombrero and those unspeakable breeches—”
“I never said a word—”
“You did. You said, ‘Where is the rose of yesterday?’”
“I meant the wild rose. You are a cultivated rose now, you know—”
She turned her face at an angle which left him nothing to look at but one small, close-set ear.
“May I see a little more of your face by-and-by?” he asked.
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Burleson.”
“If I’m not, I’m afraid you’ll forget me.”