“I’m so glad to see you, Miss Lucy,” he said, as he took her hand, “and if we had only known you were coming––”
“Why, Rufus Hardy!” exclaimed the young lady, “do you mean to say you never received any of my letters?”
At this Creede stared, and in that self-same moment Hardy realized how the low-down strategy which he had perpetrated upon his employer had fallen upon his own head a thousandfold. But before he could stammer his apologies, Kitty Bonnair stood before him––the same Kitty, and smiling as he had often seen her in his dreams.
She was attired in a stunning outing suit of officer’s cloth, tailored for service, yet bringing out the graceful lines of her figure; and as Hardy mumbled out his greetings the eyes of Jefferson Creede, so long denied of womankind, dwelt eagerly upon her beauty. Her dainty feet, encased in tan high boots, held him in rapt astonishment; her hands fascinated him with their movements like the subtle turns of a mesmerist; and the witchery of her supple body, the mischief in the dark eyes, and the teasing sweetness of her voice smote him to the heart before he was so much as noticed.
No less absolute, for all his strivings, was the conquest of Rufus Hardy, the frozen bulwarks of whose heart burst suddenly and went out like spring ice in the radiance of her first smile.
“I knew you’d be glad to see me, too,” she said, holding out her hand to him; and forgetful of all his bitterness he grasped it warmly. Then, tardily conscious of his duty, he turned to Jeff.
“Miss Kitty,” he said, “this is my friend, Jefferson Creede––Miss Bonnair.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Creede,” said Kitty, bestowing her hand upon the embarrassed cowboy. “Of course you know Miss Ware!”