Then she looked at Grant
unexpectedly, met one of his sharp glances, and flushed hotly
again.
"How about this business of hating each other, and not speaking
except to please Aunt Phoebe?" he demanded, with a suddenness
which startled himself. He had been thinking it, but he hadn't
intended to say it until the words spoke themselves. "Are we
supposed to keep on acting the fool indefinitely?"
"I was not aware that I, at least, was acting the fool," she
retorted, with a washed-out primness.
"Oh, I can't fight the air, and I'm not going to try. What I've
got to say, I prefer to say straight from the shoulder. I'm sick
of this standing off and giving each other the bad eye over
nothing. If we're going to stay on the same ranch, we might as
well be friends. What do you say?"
For a time he thought she was not going to say anything. She was
staring at the dust-cloud ahead, and chewing absently at the
corner of her under lip, and she kept it up so long that Good
Indian began to scowl and call himself unseemly names for making
any overture whatever.
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