He had not known that she smoked, and as he watched her roll a cigarette with the skill of much practice the action filled him with fresh repugnance. Through rings of smoke he regarded her with coldly quizzical eyes while he waited for her to open the conversation.
"I've got a proposition to put up to you," she began, "a scheme that I had in the back of my head ever since you started in to 'make the desert bloom like the rose.'"
Her covert sneer did not escape him, but he made no sign.
She went on—
"It's an easy graft; it's done everywhere, and I know it'll work here like a breeze."
Graft was a raw word and Symes's face hardened slightly, but he waited to hear her out.
"You're putting a big force of men on the ditch, I understand. How many?"
"About five hundred."
"Give me a medical contract."
So that was it? His eyes lit up with understanding. She wanted to make money—through him? Her tone and attitude was not exactly that of a person asking a favor. A faint smile of derision curved his lips. She saw it and added—