“So was Mr. Hart busy, but he had time to stop and say a pleasant word.”  The brown eyes challenged their vis-a-vis steadily.

The young man found nothing to say.  He could not explain that he had not lingered because he was giving Bob a chance to see her alone, nor could he tell her that he felt it better for his peace of mind to keep away from her as much as possible.

“I’m not in the habit of inviting young men to invite me to take a soda, Mr. Sanders,” she went on.  “This is my first offense.  I never did it before, and I never expect to again....  I do hope the new well will come in a good one.”  The last sentence was for the benefit of the clerk returning with the ice-cream.

“Looks good,” said Dave, playing up.  “Smut’s showing, and you know that’s a first-class sign.”

“Bob said it was expected in to-day or to-morrow....  I asked you because I’ve something to say to you, something I think one of your friends ought to say, and—­and I’m going to do it,” she concluded in a voice modulated just to reach him.

The clerk had left the glasses and the check.  He was back at the fountain polishing the counter.

Sanders waited in silence.  He had learned to let the burden of conversation rest on his opponent, and he knew that Joyce just now was in that class.

She hesitated, uncertain of her opening.  Then, “You’re disappointing your friends, Mr. Sanders,” she said lightly.

He did not know what an effort it took to keep her voice from quavering, her hand from trembling as it rested on the onyx top of the table.

“I’m sorry,” he said a second time.

“Perhaps it’s our fault.  Perhaps we haven’t been ... friendly enough.”  The lifted eyes went straight into his.

He found an answer unexpectedly difficult.  “No man ever had more generous friends,” he said at last brusquely, his face set hard.

The girl guessed at the tense feeling back of his words.

“Let’s walk,” she replied, and he noticed that the eyes and mouth had softened to a tender smile.  “I can’t talk here, Dave.”

They made a pretense of finishing their sodas, then walked out of the town into the golden autumn sunlight of the foothills.  Neither of them spoke.  She carried herself buoyantly, chin up, her face a flushed cameo of loveliness.  As she took the uphill trail a small breath of wind wrapped the white skirt about her slender limbs.  He found in her a new note, one of unaccustomed shyness.

The silence grew at last too significant.  She was driven to break it.

“I suppose I’m foolish,” she began haltingly.  “But I had been expecting—­all of us had—­that when you came home from—­from Denver—­the first time, I mean—­you would be the old Dave Sanders we all knew and liked.  We wanted our friendship to—­to help make up to you for what you must have suffered.  We didn’t think you’d hold us off like this.”