“You are not frank,” he remarked.

She could not help laughing, and her laughter trailed away musically in her excitement.

“Having once let down the bars I cannot keep you at arm’s length.  After last night I suppose I should never have let you see me for—­days and days.”

“That’s why I’m curious,” said Donnegan, “and not flattered.  I’m trying to find what purpose you have in taking me riding.”

“I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “if you will.”

And since such fencing with the wits delighted her, she let all her delight come with a sparkle in her eyes.

“I have one clue.”

“Yes?”

“And that is that you may have the old-woman curiosity to find out how many ways a man can tell her that he’s fond of her.”

Though she flushed a little she kept her poise admirably.

“I suppose that is part of my interest,” she admitted.

“I can think of a great many ways of saying it,” said Donnegan.  “I am the dry desert, you are the rain, and yet I remain dry and produce no grass.”  “A very pretty comparison,” said the girl with a smile.

“A very green one,” and Donnegan smiled.  “I am the wind and you are the wild geese, and yet I keep on blowing after you are gone and do not carry away a feather of you.”

“Pretty again.”

“And silly.  But, really, you are very kind to me, and I shall try not to take too much advantage of it.”

“Will you answer a question?”

“I had rather ask one:  but go on.”

“What made you so dry a desert, Mr. Donnegan?”

“There is a very leading question again.”

“I don’t mean it that way.  For you had the same sad, hungered look the first time I saw you—­when you came into Milligan’s in that beggarly disguise.”

“I shall confess one thing.  It was not a disguise.  It was the fact of me; I am a beggarly person.”

“Nonsense!  I’m not witless, Mr. Donnegan.  You talk well.  You have an education.”

“In fact I have an educated taste; I disapprove of myself, you see, and long ago learned not to take myself too seriously.”

“Which leads to—­”

“The reason why I have wandered so much.”

“Like a hunter on a trail.  Hunting for what?”

“A chance to sit in a saddle—­or a chair—­and talk as we are talking.”

“Which seems to be idly.”

“Oh, you mistake me.  Under the surface I am as serious as fire.”

“Or ice.”

At the random hit he glanced sharply at her, but she was looking a little past him, thinking.

“I have tried to get at the reason behind all your reasons,” she said.  “You came on me in a haphazard fashion, and yet you are not a haphazard sort.”

“Do you see nothing serious about me?”

“I see that you are unhappy,” said the girl gently.  “And I am sorry.”

Once again Donnegan was jarred, and he came within an ace of opening his mind to her, of pouring out the truth about Lou Macon.  Love is a talking madness in all men and he came within an ace of confessing his troubles.