“Say, we didn’t do a thing to that tree,” said Bertram Chester, with the air of one who deprecates himself that he may leave the road wide open for praise.
“It doesn’t matter. It—it was very brave of you. Thank you very much—are you hurt?”
“Only mussed up a little.” He blinked perceptibly at the coolness in her tone. Then he leaned back against a fence-post with the settled air of one who expects to continue the conversation. She swayed slightly away from him.
“Kind of nice place,” he said, sweeping his eye over the shingled cottage whose rose-bushes were making a brave fight against the dry summer dust, over the tiny lawn, over the Lombardy poplars.
“It’s nice of you to say so.”
Bertram turned his eye upon her again.
“Say,” said he, “I don’t believe the Judge expects me back right away! Anything more I can do around the place?”
Eleanor smiled through her slight resentment.
“I don’t think I care to take the responsibility.” 15 In that moment, the butcher-wagon, making the rounds from farm-house to farm-house, appeared quite suddenly at the bend of the road. Maria, wife of Antonio and cook for Eleanor’s haciendetta, ran out to meet it.
“Oh, Maria—tell Mr. Bowles I want to see him!” cried Eleanor, and hurried toward the house. Bertram Chester stood deserted for a moment, and then;