It was the first time Andy had spoken. Connie turned to him, her eyes wide with curiosity. His droll face, the strange dialect and the lively eyebrows caused a flock of dimples to chase each other about her pretty lips.
Connie’s father and the Breed, working in the vegetable garden below, glanced up and, seeing the strangers, laid down their tools and came up the hill, the Breed moving jerkily on his crippled limb.
Raleigh Wainwright was a man of rather striking appearance. He was slender, grey-haired, clean chiselled, and carried himself with a military bearing. There was a certain fineness in the slight figure, a symmetry of design, that suggested that indefinable something which is the hall-mark of good breeding. He had a way of carrying his well-shaped head that accentuated this aristocratic air. His grey eyes met Donald’s with a level gaze as they shook hands.
After a cursory glance, Joe Pardon, the Breed, settled himself on a seat against the wall of the cabin and rolled a cigarette. His face was swarthy and sombre; coarse black hair topped his head. In repose his features wore the impassive expression of the Indian, but when he smiled—which rarely happened—he showed the French strain in his blood and became almost handsome. He was of a sturdier build than the average Siwash Indian, and as he leaned against the logs, with muscular arms folded across his powerful chest, one would have thought him the embodiment of all that is strong and virile in man, until the eyes rested on the pitifully malformed leg, shrunken to one-half its normal size.
“Won’t you come inside?” asked Wainwright politely.
“Thank you,” answered Donald, “but if you don’t mind I’d rather look at your flower garden.”
It was quite evident that their host was pleased by this statement. “You are interested in flowers?” he questioned eagerly.
“I am,” admitted Donald, “but unfortunately I don’t know much about them.”
The dignified Englishman proved to be not only an intelligent, but a most willing teacher. From plot to plot they went, the botanist glad to talk on his hobby to an attentive audience. He gave the names of the plants, their mode of germination, growth, nature and uses. For half-an-hour his quiet voice went on until the lengthening shadows deepened. As they moved toward the cabin, the Breed passed them carrying a pail brimming with milk, at which Andy gazed with longing eyes.
“We always have a light lunch in the evening; won’t you stay?” begged their host.