This cast Bennington still more in perplexity.  He had a pretty-well-defined notion that he was being ridiculed, but concerning this, just a last grain of doubt remained.  She rattled on.

“Well!” said she impatiently, “why don’t you say something?  Why don’t you take this stick?  I don’t want it.  Men are so stupid!”

That last remark has been made many, many times, and yet it never fails of its effect, which is at once to invest the speaker with daintiness indescribable, and to thrust the man addressed into nether inferiority.  Bennington fell to its charm.  He took the stake.

“Where does it belong?” he asked.

She pointed silently to a pile of stones.  He deposited the stake in its proper place, and returned to find her seated on the ground, plucking a handful of the leaves of a little erect herb that grew abundantly in the hollow.  These she rubbed together and held to her face inside the sunbonnet.

“Who are you, anyway?” asked Bennington abruptly, as he returned.

“D’ you ever see this before?” she inquired irrelevantly, looking up with her eyes as she leaned over the handful.  “Good for colds.  Makes your nose feel all funny and prickly.”

She turned her hands over and began to drop the leaves one by one.  Bennington caught himself watching her with fascinated interest in silence.  He began to find this one of her most potent charms—­the faculty of translating into a grace so exquisite as almost to realize the fabled poetry of motion, the least shrug of her shoulders, the smallest crook of her finger, the slightest toss of her small, well-balanced head.  She looked up.

“Want to smell?” she inquired, and held out her hands with a pretty gesture.

Not knowing what else to do, Bennington stepped forward obediently and stooped over.  The two little palms held a single crushed bit of the herb in their cup.  They were soft, pink little palms, all wrinkled, like crumpled rose leaves.  Bennington stooped to smell the herb; instead, he kissed the palms.

The girl sprang to her feet with one indignant motion and faced him.  The eyes now flashed blue flame, and Bennington for the first time noticed what had escaped him before—­that the forehead was broad and thoughtful, and that above it the hair, instead of being blonde and curly and sparkling with golden radiance, was of a peculiar wavy brown that seemed sometimes full of light and sometimes lustreless and black, according as it caught the direct rays of the sun or not.  Then he appreciated his offence.

“Sir!” she exclaimed, and turned away with a haughty shoulder.

“And we’ve never been introduced!” she said, half to herself, but her face was now concealed, so that Bennington could not see she laughed.  She marched stiffly down the hill.  Bennington turned to follow her, although the action was entirely mechanical, and he had no definite idea in doing so.