turned her head and regarded him curiously, and Chip, feeling the
scrutiny, grew inwardly defiant.

Miss Whitmore decided, after a close inspection, that she rather liked
his looks, though he did not strike her as a very amiable young man.
Perhaps she was a bit tired of amiable young men. His face was thin,
and refined, and strong--the strength of level brows, straight nose and
square chin, with a pair of paradoxical lips, which were curved and
womanish in their sensitiveness; the refinement was an intangible
expression which belonged to no particular feature but pervaded the
whole face. As to his eyes, she was left to speculate upon their color,
since she had not seen them, but she reflected that many a girl would
give a good deal to own his lashes.

Of a sudden he turned his eyes from the trail and met her look squarely.
If he meant to confuse her, he failed--for she only smiled and said to
herself: "They're hazel."

"Don't you think we ought to introduce ourselves?" she asked,
composedly, when she was quite sure the eyes were not brown.

"Maybe." Chip's tone was neutrally polite.

Miss Whitmore had suspected that he was painfully bashful, after the
manner of country young men. She now decided that he was not; he was
passively antagonistic.

"Of course you know that I'm Della Whitmore," she said.

Chip carefully brushed a fly off Polly's flank with the whip.