Searchingly, at first suspiciously, then hesitatingly, with a return of the colour that came as easily as a prairie wind stirs the down of a milk-weed plant, Elizabeth Landor returned his look. It was an instinct that at last caused her eyes to drop.
"No, I was not mistaken," she voiced. "How Landor is an Indian. It is he I meant."
For a carefully timed pause, the space in which one recovers from hearing the unbelievable, Craig was silent; then swiftly, contritely he
roused. "I beg a thousand pardons," he apologised. "I meant no disrespect. I never dreamed—Forgive me." He had drawn very near. "I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I—Please forgive me." He was silent.
"There's nothing to forgive." The girl's colour was normal again and she met his eyes frankly, gravely.
"But there is," protested the man humbly. "Because he happened to be minus a collar and had a red skin—I was an ass; an egregious, blundering ass."
"Don't talk that way," hurriedly. "You merely did not know him, was all. If you had been acquainted all your life as I have—" Against her will she was lapsing into a defence, and she halted abruptly. "You were not at fault."
Again for a carefully timed pause the man was silent. Then abruptly, obviously, he changed the subject.
"You said you were going away," he recalled. "Is it to be a wedding journey?"
"Yes," tensely.