The unmistakable note of regret in the Girl’s voice flattered as well as encouraged him to go further and ask:
“Will you think of me some time?”
The Girl laughed.
“What’s the good o’ my thinkin’ o’ you? I seen you talkin’ with them gran’ Monterey ladies an’ I guess you won’t be thinkin’ often o’ me. Like ’s not by to-morrow you’ll ’ave clean forgot me,” she said with forced carelessness.
“I shall never forget you,” declared the young man with the intense fervour that comes so easily to the men of his race.
At that a half-mistrustful, half-puzzled look crossed the Girl’s face. Was this handsome stranger finding her amusing? There was almost a resentful glitter in her eyes when she cried out:
“I ’mos’ think you’re makin’ fun o’ me!”
“No, I mean every word that I say,” he hastened to assure her, looking straight into her eyes where he could scarcely have failed to read something which the Girl had not the subtlety to conceal.
“Oh, I guess I made you say that!” she returned, making a child-like effort to appear to disbelieve him.
The stranger could not suppress a smile; but the next moment he was serious, and asked: