“We’re a great pair of philosophers,” Rawley laughed, “or else we are eating sour grapes. Blamed if I know, sometimes, just where the difference lies. Or perhaps there isn’t any, and crying sour grapes is true philosophy, after all.”
Peter and Nevada, coming up the path, diverted the talk to lighter channels. Nevada, spying the gold, exclaimed over the odd pieces and took them in her cupped palm to admire each specimen by itself.
“They are yours, save this one which I shall keep,” said Johnny Buffalo unexpectedly. “Rawley will not take them. I do not need gold. I have three friends and the spirit of my sergeant, who waits for me. I am rich. They are yours. Put them on a chain and hang them around your neck while yet it is white and round.”
Nevada looked at him a full fifteen seconds before she moved. Then she rose and kissed Johnny Buffalo on the withered cheek nearest her.
“To know a man like you is a privilege,” she said simply. “I shall keep the nuggets to remind me that not all men worship gold.”
“You will wear them in a necklace. My sergeant wishes you to have them. They are not so beautiful as your white throat.”
Nevada blushed vividly and shook the nuggets in her two hands. “It’s a good thing Grandmother can’t hear you,” she laughed. “An old bachelor like you!”
“An old bachelor can say what the young man dares only to think,” Johnny Buffalo stated calmly.
Rawley was trying distractedly to read a letter which Nevada had brought down from the post-office, and to pretend that he did not hear what was going on. But it is reasonable to assume that there was nothing in the letter to make him blush at the moment when Johnny Buffalo said his little say. Nevada stole a glance at him from under her lashes and smiled.
“What is it, Cousin Rawley?” she asked wickedly. “You seem disturbed.”