ride with you!" he called out grimly as, taking the lead impetuously
again, Eve Edgarton's horse shied off at a rabbit and went sidling
down a sand-bank into a brand-new area of rocks and stubble and
breast-high blueberry bushes.

Barton liked to ride and he rode fairly well, but he was by no means
an equestrian acrobat, and, quite apart from the girl's unquestionably
disconcerting mannerisms, the foolish floppity presence of the
riderless gray rattled him more than he could possibly account for.
Yet to save his life he could not have told which would seem more
childish--to turn back in temper, or to follow on--in the same.

More in helplessness than anything else he decided to follow on.

"On and on and on," would have described it more adequately.

Blacker and blacker the huddling thunder-caps spotted across the
brilliant, sunny sky. Gaspier and gaspier in each lulling tree-top, in
each hushing bird-song, in each drooping grass-blade, the whole torrid
earth seemed to be sucking in its breath as if it meant never, never
to exhale it again.

Once more in the midst of a particularly hideous glare the girl took
occasion to rein in and wait for him, turning once more to his
flushed, miserable countenance a little face inordinately pale and
serene.

"If you're not writing a book, what would you like to talk about, Mr.
Barton?" she asked conscientiously. "Would you like to talk about
peat-bog fossils?"