I don't think of you."
She immediately regretted the words. She was so completely a woman, so
dowered with the instinct of attraction, that she realized they were
not the words of indifference.
"My thoughts are full of other people," she said hastily, trying to
amend the mistake, and that was spoiled by a rush of color that
suddenly dyed her face.
She looked over the horse's head, her anger now turned upon herself.
The man made no answer, but she knew that he was watching her. They
paced on for a silent moment then he said:
"Why are you blushing?"
"I am not," she cried, feeling the color deepening.
"You've told two lies," he answered. "You said you weren't angry, and
you're mad all through, and now you say you're not blushing, and your
face is as pink as one of those little flat roses that grow on the
prairie. It's all right to get mad and blush, but I'd like to know why
you do it. I made you mad someway or other, I don't know how. Have
_I_ made you blush, too?" he leaned nearer trying to look at her.
"How'd I do that?"
She had a sidelong glimpse of his face, quizzical, astonished, full of
piqued interest.
Pages:
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276