"Pretty nice here," he said. "I stop sometimes and kinda enjoy it. I bet you haven't anything better in the East."
"Nothing so good," she said, looking at him. "Nothing so—wonderful."
"That's the way. You come out here and stay, and maybe the old L. D. will weather the storm. How about it?"
She colored; her absurd heart fluttered. But he did not see it. He was lying down, his head on his elbow, staring at the creek.
"Ought to be fish there," he reflected. "I'll bring a rod up some day and try it out. Like to fish?"
"I never have."
"You're a funny girl." He glanced at her lazily. "What do you do, anyhow?"
"Dance. Play around. Fill in time."
"My God! That's a life for you! You've got too much money."
"I haven't any money. Of course father"
"Well, you'll marry money, I suppose. That's the game, isn't it?"
"Not necessarily. I might marry for love."
She said it painfully but bravely; not looking at him, tearing up little handfuls of grass.
"Love?" He rolled over on his elbow and stared at her. "What do you know about love?"
And laughed delightedly when she made no reply. "That's like a girl!" he said. "Talking about something you don't know anything about. I'll bet you've never been in love."
"But—suppose I have?"
"Who with?" he demanded. "Some movie actor? Or maybe" he sat up and inspected her. "Maybe it's this secretary feller! Percy! How about it?"
"Certainly not."
For some reason, connected with vanity rather than sentiment, he seemed relieved at that.
"That's right," he said. "Take a man while you're about it." He got up. "We'd better be moving," he told her. "We've got a right smart job of work to do."
He resaddled the horses, tightening her cinch carefully,
