"I--Frona . . . I wish--"
"Don't be alarmed," she whispered. "I'll not tell on you, Vance."
He saw the mocking glint in her eyes, but tried to go on. "I wish to
explain just how--"
"No need. I understand. But at the same time I must confess I do not
particularly admire your taste--"
"Frona!" The evident pain in his voice reached her.
"Oh, you big foolish!" she laughed. "Don't I know? Didn't Blanche
tell me she wet her feet?"
Corliss bowed his head. "Truly, Frona, you are the most consistent
woman I ever met. Furthermore," with a straightening of his form and a
dominant assertion in his voice, "this is not the last."
She tried to stop him, but he continued. "I feel, I know that things
will turn out differently. To fling your own words back at you, all
the factors have not been taken into consideration. As for St. Vincent
. . . I'll have you yet. For that matter, now could not be too soon!"
He flashed out hungry arms to her, but she read quicker than he moved,
and, laughing, eluded him and ran lightly down the trail.
"Come back, Frona! Come back!" he called, "I am sorry."
"No, you're not," came the answer. "And I'd be sorry if you were.
Good-night."
He watched her merge into the shadows, then entered the cabin. He had
utterly forgotten the scene within, and at the first glance it startled
him.
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