“I am strong enough for anything,” he assured her, “except suspense.”
“Well, if I must, then let me whisper it--I went because--” she drew back, “I implore you not to uproot the forest in your wrath.”
“I went because--brace yourself--I went because he asked me.”
“O Betty!” he cried, and caught her hand.
“O Dan!” she laughed, and drew her hand away.
“You deserve to be whipped,” he went on sternly. “How dare you play with the green-eyed monster I'm wearing on my sleeve? Haven't you heard his growls, madam?”
“He's a pretty monster,” said Betty. “I should like to pat him.”
“Oh, he needs to be gently stroked, I tell you.”
Dan lowered his abashed eyes to the road.
“Well, that--ah, that depends--” he began awkwardly.
“Ah, that depends upon your fancies,” finished Betty, and rode on rapidly.
It was a moment before he came up with her, and when he did so his face was flushed.
“Do you mind about my fancies, Betty?” he asked humbly.
“I?” said Betty, disdainfully. “Why, what have I to do with them?”
“With my fancies? nothing--so help me God--nothing.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she replied quietly, stroking her horse. Her cheeks were glowing and she let the overhanging branches screen her face. As they rode on silently they heard the rustling of the leaves beneath the horses' feet, and the soft wind playing through the forest. A chain of lights and shadows ran before them into the misty purple of the distance, where the dim trees went up like gothic spires.
Betty's hands were trembling, but fearing the stillness, she spoke in a careless voice.
“When do you go back to college?” she inquired politely.
“In two days--but it's all the same to you, I dare say.”
“Indeed it isn't. I shall be very sorry.”
“You needn't lie to me,” he returned irritably. “I beg your pardon, but a lie is a lie, you know.”
“So I suppose, but I wasn't lying--I shall be very sorry.”
A fiery maple branch fell between them, and he impatiently thrust it aside.
“When you treat me like this you raise the devil in me,” he said angrily. “As I told you before, Betty, when I'm not Lightfoot I'm Montjoy--it may be this that makes you plague me so.”
“O Dan, Dan!” she laughed, but in a moment added gravely: “When you're neither Lightfoot nor Montjoy, you're just yourself, and it's then, after all, that I like you best. Shall we turn now?” She wheeled her horse about on the rustling leaves, and they started toward the sunset light shining far up the road.
