“But she—she’s only a rough kind, is all you mean, isn’t it?” Her face flushed, ever so little.
“Oh, Kate Hallard’s a decent sort, all right enough, I dare say,” Anderson hastened to answer. “Of course there’s always talk. I’ve heard some myself, but I discounted it. In the first place, she’s hard as nails. No nonsense about her. Not her. Her tongue ’s tipped with vitriol, and when she opens her mouth the men catch it.” Anderson shrugged his shoulder a trifle.
“And then, of course,” said he, “There’s no telling about Gard. He may be a little more attracted than he might want to be, and yet have strength enough to pull out of it and get away.”
“I should call that being weak, if he cared!” cried Helen, indignantly.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Her father took Dickens’ bridle-rein from the puncher who had brought the pony up.
“It all depends upon how a man looks at some things,” he said, throwing the reins into place.
Helen took them and prepared to mount, a hand on the cantel.
“The one thing I don’t like about this way of riding,” said Anderson, “is that it curtails our privileges. You don’t need helping on.”
Helen sprang to the saddle, adjusting herself with a little shake.
“’Twould only hinder,” said she, smiling, “like every other help we don’t need.”