"Philip!" said Diane suddenly.
"Mademoiselle!" said Philip, suspiciously grave and courtly of manner.
The girl glanced at him sharply.
"It annoys me exceedingly," she went on finally, finding his laughing
glance much too bland and friendly to harbor guile, "to have you
trailing after me in a hay-wagon."
"I'll buy me a rumpus machine," said Philip.
"It would bother me to have you trailing after me so persistently in
any guise!" flashed the girl indignantly.
"It must perforce continue to bother you!" regretted Philip.
"Besides," he added absently, "I'm really the Duke of Connecticut in
disguise, touring about for my health, and the therapeutic value of hay
is enormous."
Now why Diane's cheeks should blaze so hotly at this aristocratic claim
of Mr. Poynter's, who may say? But certainly she glanced with swift
suspicion at her tranquil guest, who met her eyes with supreme good
humor, laughed and fell to whistling softly to himself. Despite a
certain significant silence in the camp of his lady, Mr. Poynter smoked
most comfortably, puffing forth ingenious smoke-rings which he lazily
sought to string upon his pipestem and busily engaging himself in a
variety of other conspicuously peaceful occupations. All in all, there
was something so tranquil and soothing in the very sight of him that
Diane unbent in spite of herself.
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