straight figure and the flash of her dark eyes.

"Mad at me, Phyl?" Crossing his arms on the pommel of the saddle he
leaned toward her, half coaxing, half teasing.

The girl chose to ignore him and withdrew her gaze to the stage, still
creeping antlike toward the hills.

"My love has breath o' roses,
O' roses, o' roses,"

he hummed audaciously, ready to catch her smile when it came.

It did not come. He thought he had never seen her carry her dusky good
looks more scornfully. With a movement of impatience she brushed back a
rebellious lock of blue-black hair from her temple.

"Somebody's acting right foolish," he continued jauntily. "It was all in
fun, and in a game at that."

"I wasn't playing," he heard, though the profile did not turn in the
least toward him.

"Well, I hated to let you stay a wall-flower."

"I don't play kissing games any more," she informed him with dignity.

"Sho, Phyl! I told you 'twas only in fun," he justified himself. "A kiss
ain't anything to make so much fuss over. You ain't the first girl that
ever was kissed."