"That's all right, my son; don't swell up so. Why don't you tell her?"
"Why the deuce should I? Do you think I go yawping my business affairs to every female I meet?"
"Well, Clyde Burnaby's good stuff," said Wade. "She has a level head. If it comes up that way, Casey, tell her all about it. She'll sympathize with you."
"I'm not looking for sympathy."
"And she might give you some good advice."
"Rats!" Casey Dunne commented, inelegantly but forcibly, and Wade said no more.
Dunne was glad when the cigars were ended. He found Clyde Burnaby at the piano, barely touching the keys. A faint melody seemed to flow from her finger's tips.
"Do you sing, Mr. Dunne?"
"Only very confidentially. When I was riding for a cow outfit I used to sing at night, when the cattle were bedded down. Sort of tradition of the business that it kept 'em quiet. They didn't seem to mind my voice. And that's really the most encouragement I ever got."
Mrs. Wade asked Clyde to play. She complied at once, without hesitation. They applauded her. Afterward one of the men sang, to her accompaniment. Then she and Dunne drifted together once more.