Dick could say nothing. Most of his education had come in through his pores.
“I like Mr. Wilson, too.”
“He is the other one, I suppose?”
Dick, his eyes fixed on the sand, did not catch the mirthful glance that was shot at him after these words. And her voice, friendly and unconscious, told him nothing.
“Yes, he is Mr. Beveridge's friend. They room together.”
“Well, I hope they enjoy it.”
“Now, Dick, what makes you so cross? When you are such a bear, it wouldn't be any wonder if I didn't want to see you.”
He gazed for a minute at the rippling blue lake, then broke out: “Can you blame me for being cross? Is it my fault?”
She looked at him with wondering eyes.
“Why—you don't mean it is my fault, Dick?”