Page:Firecrackers a realistic novel.pdf/248

 Her straight, black hair was bound back on her head under a grape-blue cloche and her body was enclosed in a frock of cardinal crepe de chine. Her face was pale, her lips crimson, and a curious confusion of innocence and suspicion peeped out from under her long lashes.

Never amusing, except when she talked about her future career as a painter, on this afternoon Wintergreen proved to be particularly dull. Her first question, as always, was Where are we going? Once in the motor, she displayed her usual interest in the road, most of which she had traversed with Paul twenty times before. How often she had requested him to tell her the name of the beautiful drive along the river bank, and how often he had told her! She invented a new query for this oc casion, demanding information as to the exact point at which the Hudson met the North River. Once or twice, Paul attempted to clasp her hand in his palm. The first time this occurred she withdrew her hand shyly, even a little coyly, he was inclined to believe. He was led to make further effort in this direction.

I don't believe you think I'm nice, she protested.

Wintergreen—how he loved to utter that name; aside from her invulnerable chastity, it was the best excuse for his fancy for the girl—indeed, I do. I think you're very nice.

If you thought I was nice, you wouldn't do that, unless. ..