A flush of annoyance glowed through the tan of her cheeks, but her eyes refused to yield to his. "Nonsense! Don't talk foolishness, Tom. We were just children."
"Do you mean that everything's all off between us?"
"We made a mistake. Let us be good friends and forget it, Tom," she pleaded.
"What's the use of talking that way, Phyl?" He swung from the saddle, and came toward her eagerly. "I love you—always have since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. We're going to be married one of these days."
She held up a hand to keep him back. "No—we're not. I know now that you're not the right man for me, and I'm not the right girl for you."
"I'm the best judge of that," he retorted.
She shook her head with certainty. It seemed a lifetime since this boy had kissed her at the dance and she had run, tingling, from his embrace. She felt now old enough in experience to be his mother.
"No, Tom—let us both forget it. Go back to your other girls, and let me be just a friend."
"I haven't any other girls," he answered sullenly. "And I won't be put off like that. You've got to tell me what has come between us. I've got a right to know, and I'm going to know."
"Yes, you have a right—but don't press it. Just let it go at this: I didn't know my own mind then, and I do now."