She found herself listening to Casey's voice, watching the set of his shoulders, noting the deep, living bronze of his skin. From time to time he turned, including them in the conversation, pointing out things of interest to Wade. But nevertheless she did not enjoy the drive.
"I sent word that we were coming," said Casey, as they sighted the ranch. "That was in the interests of the ladies mostly."
"Of course," Wade agreed. "Women always like people to find them all togged up, as if they never did a day's work in their lives. I catch it from Kitty if I bring any one home with me without due notice. If women only knew how much better they look in ordinary clothes!"
Kitty Wade, turning her head to retort, surprised a quiet, enigmatic smile on Clyde's face. Their eyes met, and keen question and defiant answer leaped across the glance. Kitty Wade let the retort remain unspoken, and contemplated the nigh chestnut's ears, for her husband's last words had given her a clew.
"Oh, Clyde Burnaby, Clyde Burnaby!" she said to herself with a little shake of the head. "Now I know. What a deep finesse! You think that this McCrae girl will put on her best country-maid—or country-made—finery; and you, in your studied simplicity, will show the better by contrast—to the masculine eye, at least. I give you full credit, my dear. Not one woman in a thousand would have thought of it. I shouldn't, and I know men better than you do. But why did you do it? Are you jealous of a girl you've never seen? And does that mean you care—seriously care—for our pleasant but likely impecunious Mr. Dunne?"
She was still puzzling over this problem when they drove up to the house. Donald McCrae and his wife welcomed them, and he and Casey took the team to the stable. But as the others reached the welcome shade of the veranda Sheila emerged from the house and came forward. At sight of her Kitty Wade smiled to herself.
For Sheila had not donned finery. She was clad in simple white, unrelieved by any touch of colour. Not a ring adorned her slim, brown hands. Her masses of glistening, brown hair were dressed low on her head, giving an effect almost girlish, softening the keenness of her face. She was as composed, as dignified, as essentially ladylike as Clyde herself.
Clyde thanked her gracefully for the arrangement of their rooms. It was very good of her to take such trouble for strangers.
"Oh, but I'm afraid I did that for Casey, and not for the strangers," laughed Sheila. "I hope old Feng didn't undo my work. He thought I was butting in. Anyway, Casey would have seen that you were comfortable, though some of his ideas of domestic arrangements are masculine, to say the least of them." She told the story of the hen, and set them laughing.
Later Casey, having stabled the horses, came up with McCrae. "Well, Sheila, what's the good word?" he asked. "What yarns have you been telling Miss Burnaby?"