ture.

But she was no sooner astride her pony than the color returned to her
cheeks, and the sparkle, if not the gayety, to her eyes. And at once,
as if her taciturnity had been a vow, to be ended when she should touch
leather, she began to talk. "I'm cross with you," she said.

"With _me_?"

"About last night. I thought--I don't know what I thought. But I've
liked you so much. And all your thoughts about people are kind and
generous, and I simply won't believe that it's all put on for effect,
and----"

"What about last night? I didn't even see you. What have I done?"

"Evelyn saw you, didn't she? Well, I saw Evelyn right afterward. A
child could have seen that she was upset, and I made her tell me all
about everything. You don't care two straws about her, really. Do
you?"

"Does she care two straws about me?"

"Was it just one of those things that happen when it's dark and
romantic and two people feel lonely, and----"

"And have forgotten yesterday, and aren't considering tomorrow. But
nothing did happen. You came out on the porch, and the courthouse bell
sounded a shockingly late hour, and if we didn't remember yesterday or
consider tomorrow, at least we thought of dinner."

"Evelyn," said Lucy, "was wild with anger and shame."

"I am sorry."

"You don't look a bit sorry."

"I don't believe a man is ever sorry unless he makes real trouble."

"Isn't losing faith in oneself real trouble?"

"And who has done that?"

"Why, Evelyn, of course. She thought that she was as unapproachable as
an icicle, and now she says all sorts of wild things about herself.
Just before you came in the children asked her to read Peter Rabbit to
them. She said she would, but that she didn't think she was _fit_ to."

I burst out laughing, and so did Lucy. "And still," she cried, "you
don't look sorry."

"I'm looking at you," I said, "and I'm hanged if I can look at you and
either feel sorry or half the time keep a straight face. And if I
could, I wouldn't. As for Evelyn I'm glad she's found out that she
isn't an icicle. Look here, I'll bet you a thousand dollars she's
engaged or married within a year, beginning today."

"I couldn't pay if I lost," said Lucy. "But if you'll make it ten
dollars, I'll take you ten times."

We shook hands, and then, as is usual, tried to prove that we had bet
wisely.

"She's lonely," I said, "that's all that is the matter with her. She
sees all her friends married and