Crimson Mountain (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

been through this afternoon!" she explained quickly, in what she tried to make a matter-of-fact tone. "I really would feel quite uneasy alone. And besides, we have things to talk over."

      He looked at her in a kind of grave amusement. "Have we?" he asked. "What things?"

      "Why, certainly," said Laurel crisply, avoiding his direct glance. "We—haven’t—made—any plans yet."

      "Plans?" said Pilgrim with a lifting of his brows.

      "Why, yes, plans for meeting again, and all that. You haven’t even given me your address."

      "Address?" he said, almost stupidly. "Why would you want that?"

      She gave him a quick, almost reproachful look, and the color stole softly into her lovely cheeks.

      "You certainly were not planning that we should go back and be strangers again, were you?" she asked almost haughtily.

      He caught his breath but held his lips steady. "Wasn’t that what you were expecting would happen?" he asked. "Isn’t that what you want? I certainly wouldn’t presume on some slight service I was able to render."

      Laurel went suddenly white and drew a quick breath, her lips trembling a little, though she was doing her best to hold them still. "It certainly is not!" she flashed. "Why—why—I thought we were friends!" And now her little soft chin was trembling in spite of her best efforts.

      Then the hard expression that had come into Pilgrim’s face while he was speaking suddenly softened again, and he looked deep into her eyes as if he were searching her very soul.

      "Are you sure?" he asked, and his voice was tense.

      "I certainly am sure," she said very definitely. "How could you think I was like that?"

      One more instant his eyes raked her face, and then he suddenly put his hand over hers with quick meaningful pressure, and his face bloomed into a brilliant smile.

      "All right! Come on, then," he said, and led the way to her car.