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Burned Bridges

Page 30

But this--this subtle, mysterious emanation from a smiling girl at his

elbow singed him like a flame. If he had been asleep he was now in a

moment breathlessly, confusedly awake.

The commotion was all inward, mental. Outwardly he kept his composure,

and the only sign of that turmoil was a tinge of color that rose in his

face. And as if there was some mysterious mode of communication

established between them a faint blush deepened the delicate tint of

Sophie Carr's cheeks. Thompson rose. So did Tommy Ashe with some haste

when he perceived her there.

"No, no," she protested. "Keep your chairs, please."

"Mr. Thompson," Carr's keen old eyes flickered between the two men and

the girl. "My daughter. Mr. Thompson is the latest leader of the

forlorn hope at Lone Moose, Sophie."

Mr. Thompson murmured some conventional phrase. He was mightily

disturbed without knowing why he was so disturbed, and rather fearful of

showing this incomprehensible state. The girl's manner put him a little

at his ease. She gave him her hand, soft warm fingers that he had a mad

impulse to press. He wondered why he felt like that. He wondered why

even the tones of her voice gave him a thrill of pleasure.

"So you are the newest missionary to Lone Moose?" she said. "I wish you

luck."

Although her voice was full, throaty like a meadow lark's, her tone

carried the same sardonic inflection he had noticed in her father's

comment on his mission. It pained Thompson. He had no available weapon

against that sort of attack. But the girl did not pursue the matter. She

said to her father: "Crooked Tree's oldest son is in the kitchen and wants to speak to you,

Dad."

Carr rose. So did Thompson. He wanted to get away, to think, to fortify

himself somehow against this siren call in his blood. He was sadly

perplexed. Measured by his own standards, even to harbor such thoughts

as welled up in his mind was a sinful weakness of the flesh. He was in

as much anxiety to get away from Carr's as he had been to find a welcome

there.

"I think I shall be moving along," he said to Carr. "I'll say good-day,

sir."

Carr thrust out a brown sinewy hand with the first trace of heartiness

he had shown.

"Come again when you feel like it," he invited. "When you have time and

inclination we'll match our theories of the human problem, maybe. Of

course we'll disagree. But my bark is worse than my bite, no matter what

you've heard."

He strode off. Sophie bowed to Thompson, nodded to Tommy Ashe, and

followed her father. Ashe got up, stretched his sturdy young arms above

his fair, curly head. He was perhaps a year or two older than Thompson,

a little thicker through the chest, and not quite so tall. One imagined

rightly that he was very strong, that he could be swift and purposeful

in his movements, despite an apparent deliberation. His face was

boyishly expressive. He had a way of smiling at trifles. And one did not

have to puzzle over his nationality. He was English. His accent and

certain intonations established that.

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