"Did he?"
"Yes, he said you had promised to call, but that he did not think you would. He has told me so often that you don't like women."
"I don't like them."
"Perhaps you haven't met the right sort," she hazarded.
"Or perhaps I have," he answered grimly. He laughed, meeting her sympathetic eyes. "No! I'm not one of those romantic chaps with a love story in the past done up with blue ribbons and lavender. If you're trying to pity me on that score I'm sorry—but I don't deserve it."
She looked at him steadily.
"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Dakers?" she asked, in a hurt voice.
Feathers' hand fell over hers as it lay half-buried in the soft grass, and for a moment his fingers closed about it in a grip that hurt; then he got to his feet.
"Laughing at you! Don't you know me better than that?"
He went over to the car and busied himself at the engine for a 160 moment, and Marie watched him, with chagrined eyes.