Dora Marshall’s door opened in response to Susie’s lusty call.
“Have you seen a brown horse with a star in its forehead, roached mane——”
“Aw, g’wan, Susie!” In confusion, “Babe” began to remove his spurs, thereby serving notice upon the Schoolmarm that he had “come to set a spell.”
So the Schoolmarm brought her needlework, and while she explained to Mr. Britt the exact shadings which she intended to give to each leaf and flower, that person sat with his entranced eyes upon her white hands, with their slender, tapering fingers—the smallest, the most beautiful hands, he firmly believed, in the whole world.
It was not easy to carry on a spirited conversation with Mr. Britt. At best, his range of topics was limited, and in his present frame of mind he was about as vivacious as a deaf mute. He was quite content to sit with the high heels of his cowboy boots—from which a faint odor of the stable emanated—hung over the rung of his chair, and to watch the Schoolmarm’s hand plying the needle on that almost sacred sofa-pillow.
“Your work must be very interesting, Mr. Britt,” suggested Dora.
“I dunno as ’tis,” replied Mr. Britt.
“It’s so—so picturesque.”
Mr. Britt considered.
“I shouldn’t say it was.”