Chetwood stared at her for a moment and gulped. "I keep forgetting I'm a hired man. Go on."
"It's doing you good. You're getting a knowledge of ranching. I think you know almost enough now to take up a homestead."
"But," Chetwood objected, "I'd have to live on the blinking thing in a beastly, lonely shack."
"Plenty of good men have lived in lonely shacks."
"I didn't mean that. I meant that I shouldn't see you more than perhaps four or five times a week. Now—"
"You may not see me at all. I'll tell you why, presently. Anyway, I wouldn't let you waste your time. I'm serious. You see, Billy—" here Miss Jean blushed—"you'd be working on your homestead for—for us."
"Oh, Lord!" said Chetwood. "That is—I mean—yes, of course. Inspiring thought and all that sort of thing, what? But how much nicer it would be if I were able to look forward to seeing you in our humble door as I came home weary from my daily toil, with—er—roses and honeysuckle and all that sort of thing clambering about don't you know, and the sweet odor of—of—"
"Of what, Billy?" Miss Jean prompted softly, in her eyes the expression of one who gazes upon a fair mental picture. "Of what, Billy?"
"Of pies," Chetwood replied raptly. "Ah! Um!"
"Of wha—a—t!" Miss Jean cried, coming out of her reverie with a start.