A consciousness of sex had obtruded into the old boyish
_camaraderie_.
After a brisk canter they drew their horses together for a walk.
Beatrice broke the ice of their commonplaces. She looked directly at
him, her cheeks flushing. "I don't know how you're going to forgive
me, Clay. I've been awf'ly small and priggish. I hate to think I'm
ungenerous, but that's just what I've been."
"Let's forget it," he said gently.
"No, I don't want to forget--not till I've told you how humble I feel
to-day. I might have trusted you. Why didn't I? It would have been
easy for me to have taken your little friend in and made things right
for her. That's what I ought to have done. But, instead of that--Oh,
I hate myself for the way I acted."
Her troubled smile, grave and sweet, touched him closely. It was in
his horoscope that the spell of this young Diana must be upon him.
He put his hand on hers as it rested on the pommel of the saddle and
gave it a slight pressure. "You're a good scout, li'l' pardner."
But it was Beatrice's way to step up to punishment and take what was
coming. As a little girl, while still almost a baby, she had once
walked up to her mother, eyes flashing with spirit, and pronounced
judgment on herself. "I've tum to be spanked. I broke Claire's doll
an' I'm glad of it, mean old fing. So there!" Now she was not going
to let the subject drop until she had freed her soul.
"No, Clay, I've been a poor sportsman.
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