Tell me, are you
spurred?"
She lifted the hem of her habit; two small spurs glittered on her
polished boot heels.
"That's it, you see," he observed; "you probably have not ridden cross
saddle very long. When your mount swerved you spurred, and he bolted, bit
in teeth."
"That's exactly it," she admitted, looking ruefully at her spurs. Then
she dropped her skirt, glanced interrogatively at him, and, obeying his
grave gesture, seated herself again upon the bench.
"Don't stand," she said civilly. He took the other end of the seat,
lifting the still slumbering squirrel to his knee.
"I--I haven't said very much," she began; "I'm impulsive enough to be
overgrateful and say too much. I hope you understand me; do you?"
"Of course; you're very good. It was nothing; you could have stopped your
horse yourself. People do that sort of thing for one another as a matter
of course."
"But not at the risk you took----"
"No risk at all," he said hastily.
She thought otherwise, and thought it so fervently that, afraid of
emotion, she turned her cold, white profile to him and studied her horse,
haughty lids adroop. The same insolent sweetness was in her eyes when
they again reverted to him. He knew the look; he had encountered it often
enough in the hallway and on the stairs. He knew, too, that she must
recognize him; yet, under the circumstances, it was for her to speak
first; and she did not, for she was at that age when horror of overdoing
anything chokes back the scarcely extinguished childish instinct to say
too much.
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