"I don't know. Have you? Where?" he answered, facing her. It was a
relief to find that she still averted her face.

"At Berkeley, in California, the first time, and the second at Spokane,
in front of the Davenport," she replied.

"First--and--second?... You--you remembered both times!" he burst out,
incredulously.

"Yes. I don't see how I could have helped remembering." Her laugh was
low, musical, a little hurried, yet cool.

Dorn was not familiar with girls. He had worked hard all his life, there
among those desert hills, and during the few years his father had
allowed him for education. He knew wheat, but nothing of the eternal
feminine. So it was impossible for him to grasp that this girl was not
wholly at her ease. Her words and the cool little laugh suddenly brought
home to Kurt the immeasurable distance between him and a daughter of one
of the richest ranchers in Washington.

"You mean I--I was impertinent," he began, struggling between shame and
pride. "I--I stared at you.... Oh, I must have been rude.... But, Miss
Anderson, I--I didn't mean to be. I didn't think you saw me--at all. I
don't know what made me do that. It never happened before. I beg your
pardon."

A subtle indefinable change, perceptible to Dorn, even in his confused
state, came over the girl.