"She's bright," was Baird's mental comment. Aloud he said, "And in my part of the world the best reason for not doing things is because they've been done before—every one's looking for a newer and better way."
"Your part of the world?" It was the first sign of personal interest she had shown.
Baird was not supersensitive, but he had felt polite antagonism in her manner. He attempted to capture interest. "I came here from Chicago. Before that I was in Wyoming for a time. I've ranched, and done a lot of other things. I spent two years in South America—got rid of fifty thousand dollars down there and nothing but a year of fever to show for it. I could tell you a few tales that would make your hair rise."
He had won her wide look. "Were you on the Amazon? Are there flowers there that catch insects and snakes that make hoops of themselves an' chase animals?"
"Yes, I've been on the Amazon—worse luck. I don't know about the hoop-snakes, but I've seen plenty of insects that are flowers and flowers that are insects—everything in nature preys on something else.... How do you come to know about the Amazon?"
"I read a story about it."
"Do you like to read?"
"I like it better than anything else," she said brightly.
They had come to the gate, and she looked at the bag strapped to his saddle, then laughingly at Baird. "Looks funny, doesn't it?" he remarked. "I'm taking my dress clothes over to Westmore—they're having a dinner-dance to-night."
Ann's smile vanished. "Oh—" she said, her face grown wistful. Then with a flash into gaiety she sprang lightly to a notch in the gate-post, swung herself up by the foothold, and took a key from the niche in which it was hidden.