Mr. Poynter's face was
radiant.
"And after running the chance of a night in the pine barrens," he mused
admiringly, "you amble out of the danger zone in the most
matter-of-fact manner with your saddle clanking like a bone-yard. I
don't wonder your aunt fusses. What made the racket?"
"Bones and shells and things."
"Well, for such absolute irresponsibility as you've developed since
you've been out of the chastening jurisdiction of the hay-camp, I'd
respectfully suggest that you marry the very first bare-headed
motorist, smoking a cigarette, whom you happened to see as you rode out
of the pine-woods."
"Philip," said Diane disdainfully, "the moon--"
"Is on my head again," admitted Philip. "I know. It always gets me.
We'd better motor around a bit and clear my brain out. I'd hate
awfully to have the Sherrills think I'm in love."
Almost anything one could say, reflected Diane uncomfortably, inspired
Philip's brain to fresh fertility.
The camp of Keela, domiciled indefinitely in the flat-woods to sell to
winter tourists, proved a welcome outlet for the fretting gypsy tide in
Diane's veins. She found the Indian girl's magnetism irresistible.
Proud, unerringly truthful, fastidious in speech and personal habit,
truly majestic and generous, such was the shy woodland companion with
whom Diane chose willfully to spend her idle hours, finding the girl's
unconstrained intervals of silence, her flashes of Indian keenness, her
inborn reticence and naive parade of the wealth of knowledge Mic-co had
taught her, a most bewildering book in which there was daily something
new to read.
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