“I thought as much.” Gerty shrugged an airy irresponsibility. Innes could detect no regret.
“Where will you get your dinner?” His sister was uncertain how far she might venture into this domestic situation.
“Oh, anywhere,” brusked Tom.
“At the mess-table, the regular eating tent. He usually goes there when there is a dinner at the Delta. He doesn’t dance, you know.”
They passed a cot outside the tent. “Who sleeps there?”
“Tom.” The eyes of the two women did not meet.
Innes made no comment.
“He finds the tent stuffy.” Gerty’s lips were prim with reserve. They walked toward the river in silence. As they reached the encampment, Gerty recovered her vivacity.
“That’s Mr. Rickard’s office, that ramada. Isn’t it quaint? And that’s his tent; no, the other one. MacLean’s is next; we all call him Junior now. The kitchen’s behind those mesquit trees. They gave the only shade in the camp to the cook!” She made a grimace men would have found adorable, lost quite on Innes Hardin.
“There’s Junior, now,” dimpled Gerty Hardin.