He strode moodily ahead, dutifully breaking the path for her in the direction of the distant canyon, where Mrs. Rightbody and her friend awaited them. Miss Alice was first to speak. In this trackless, uncharted terra incognita of the passions, it is always the woman who steps out to lead the way.
“You know this place very well. I suppose you have lived here long?”
“Yes.”
“You were not born here—no?”
A long pause.
“I observe they call you 'Stanislaus Joe.' Of course that is not your real name?” (Mem.—Miss Alice had never called him ANYTHING, usually prefacing any request with a languid, “O-er-er, please, mister-er-a!” explicit enough for his station.)
“No.”
Miss Alice (trotting after him, and bawling in his ear).—“WHAT name did you say?”
The Man (doggedly).—“I don't know.” Nevertheless, when they reached the cabin, after an half-hour's buffeting with the storm, Miss Alice applied herself to her mother's escort, Mr. Ryder.
“What's the name of the man who takes care of my horse?”