“I—I wouldn’t care so much if the brute hadn’t scoured the skin off my face. He had whiskers as sharp and stiff as sandpaper. And when I jerked away he rubbed my cheek with them.”
This revelation as to the cause of her outraged dignity almost prostrated her friends with glee.
“Dot, I agree with you; it’s one thing to be kissed, and quite another to have your beauty spoiled,” replied Helen, presently. “Who was this particular savage?”
“I don’t know!” burst out Dorothy. “If I did I’d—I’d—”
Her eyes expressed the direful punishment she could not speak.
“Honestly now, Dot, haven’t you the least idea who did it?” questioned Helen.
“I hope—I think it was Stewart,” replied Dorothy.
“Ah! Dot, your hope is father to the thought. My dear, I’m sorry to riddle your little romance. Stewart did not—could not have been the offender or hero.”
“How do you know he couldn’t?” demanded Dorothy, flushing.
“Because he was clean-shaven to-day at noon, before we rode out. I remember perfectly how nice and smooth and brown his face looked.”