She laughed gaily.
"Well, that's next to having nothing on your mind. Say, you wouldn't think I had the blues, would you?"
"Can't say I should."
"Well, I have. I've been so homesick all day that I could go round the corner and cry if you—if you hadn't said I mustn't."
"What are you homesick for?"
"Oh, for the old ranch and the ponies and my dogs and—and lots of things. See the way the wind flecks the water over there? Well, that's just the way it does the grasslands back home."
"But it's such a parched, barren sort of a place, Wyoming."
"It is not. You ought to see it in the early spring, when everything is vivid green, and the cactus is in bloom—the red-flowered kind that looks so pretty against the sides of the gray buttes. Why, you can gallop for miles with your horse's hoofs sinking into beds of prairie roses!"
"But it's virtually green in England all the year round. I'd like to show you a well-run English estate. Rather a pretty sight. Hascombe Hall's a fairly decent example. Some hundreds of acres, don't you know."
"Some hundreds!" repeated Bobby, scornfully. "Our ranch covers two hundred thousand acres, and it takes Pa Joe four days' hard riding to get over it!"