Part 45 (1/2)

His words trailed off into silence while Beth waited for him to explain about his sense of responsibility. She wasn't altogether accustomed to have anybody responsible for her. But as he didn't go on, she spoke.

”You mean that you--that I--that Shad forced me on you?”

”Bless your heart, child--no.”

”Then what _did_ you mean?” she insisted.

Peter thought he had a definite idea in his mind about what he felt as to their relations.h.i.+p. It was altruistic he knew, gentle he was sure, educational he was positive. But half sleepily he spoke, unaware that what he said might sound differently to one of Beth's independent mind.

”I mean,” he said, ”that I wanted to look after you--that I wanted our friends.h.i.+p to be what it has proved to be--without the flaw of sentiment. I wouldn't spoil a single hour by any thought of yours or mine that led us away from the music.”

And then, while her brain worked rapidly over this calm negation of his, ”But you can't be unaware, Beth, that you're very lovely.”

Now ”sentiment” is a word over which woman has a monopoly. It is her property. She understands its many uses as no mere man can ever hope to do. The man who tosses it carelessly into the midst of a delicate situation is courting trouble. Beth perked up her head like a startled fawn. What did he mean? All that was feminine in her was up in arms, nor did she lay them down in surrender at his last phrase, spoken with such an unflattering air of commonplace.

Suddenly she startled Peter with a rippling laugh which made him sit up blinking at her. ”Are you apologizin' for not makin' love to me?” she questioned impertinently. ”Say--that's funny.” And she went off into another disconcerting peal of laughter.

But it wasn't funny for Peter, who was now made aware that she had turned his mind inside out upon the table between them, so to speak, that she might throw dust in the wheels. And so he only gasped and stared at her--startlingly convinced that in matters of sentiment the cleverest man is no match for even the dullest woman and Beth could hardly be considered in this category. At the challenge of his half expressed thought the demureness and sobriety of the lesson hour had fallen from her like a doffed cloak.

Peter protested blandly.

”You don't understand what----”

But she broke in swiftly. ”Maybe you were afraid I might be fallin' in love with _you_,” she twitted him, and burst into laughter again.

”I--I had no such expectation,” said Peter, stiffening, sure that his dignity was a poor thing.

”Or maybe----,” she went on joyfully, ”maybe you were afraid _you_ might be fallin' in love with _me_.” And then as she rose and gathered up her music, tantalizingly, ”What _did_ you mean, Mr. Nichols?”

He saw that he was losing ground with every word she uttered, but his sense of humor conquered.

”You little pixie!” he cried, das.h.i.+ng for her, with a laugh. ”Where have you hidden this streak of impudence all these weeks?” But she eluded him nimbly, running around the table and out of the door before he could catch up with her.

He halted at the doorsill and called to her. She emerged cautiously from behind a bush and made a face at him.

”Beth! Come back!” he entreated. ”I've got something to say to you.”

”What?” she asked, temporizing.

”I want to talk to you--seriously.”

”Good Lord--seriously! You're not goin' to--to take the risk of--of havin' me 'vamp' you, are you?”

”Yes. I'll risk that,” he grinned.

But she only broke off a leaf and nibbled at it contemplatively. ”Maybe _I_ won't risk it. 'I don't want to spoil a single hour,'” she repeated, mocking his dignity, 'by any thought of yours or mine that would lead us away from the music.' Maybe _I'm_ in danger.” And then, ”You know _you're_ not so bad lookin' yourself, Mr. Nichols!”

”Stop teasing, Beth.”

”I won't.”