erstood.

Mary V had gone back to her hammock and was lying with one arm thrown
up across the cushion, her face concealed behind it. She, too, felt
miserably misunderstood. Flighty she was, spoiled and impulsive, but
beneath it all she had her father's practical strain of hard sense.
Mary V had grown older in the past three days. She had faced some
bitter possibilities and had done a good deal of sober thinking. She
felt now that Johnny was carried away by the fascination of flying, and
that Bland's companionship was the worst thing in the world for him.
She was hurt at Johnny's lack of consideration for her, at his complete
absorption in himself and his own plans. She wanted him to "settle
down," and be content with loving her and with being loved--to be
satisfied with prosperity that carried no element of danger.

Moreover, that he had not troubled to send her any message but had
deliberately gone flying off in the opposite direction with Bland,
regardless of what she might think or suffer, filled her with something
more bitter than mere girlish resentment. Johnny was like one under a
spell, hypnotized by his own air castles and believing them very real.

Mary V had no faith in his dreams, and not even to please Johnny would
she pretend that she had. She had nothing but impatience for his
plans, nothing but disgust for his partner, nothing but disappointment
from his visit. She moved her arm so that she could look at him, and
wondered why it should give her no pleasure to see him standing there
unharmed, sturdy, alive to his finger tips--him whom she had but a
little while ago believed dead. Johnny, I must confess, was cot a
cheerful object. He was scowling, with his face turned so that Mary V
saw only his sullen profile; with his mouth pinched in at the corners
and his chin set in the lines of stubbornness.

As if he felt her eyes upon him, Johnny turned and sent her a look not
calculated to be conciliating. If Mary V wanted to sulk, he'd give her
a chance. He certainly could not throw up all his plans just on her
whim.

"I guess I'll go down and help Bland," he said in the repressed tone of
anger forcing itself to be civil. "We ought to be getting back
to-night." He opened the screen door, gave her another look, and went
off toward the corral, sulks written all over him.

Mary V waited until she was sure he did not mean to turn back, then
went off to her room, shut the door with a force that vibr