“She’s tired and disheartened, that’s what she is, and she’s going back to Paris, and you–” Boone paused, and glared at his companion, “–and you mean to let her!”
Old Demijohn felt a spur kicked against his flank, and he lifted his fore feet and sped as the wind. It was fully an hour later when Meagre Shanks caught up with horse and rider again. Rather, he met them coming back. His conversation was guileless, at first.
“Do you know, Din,” he began, “those two girls are only half educated? Yes sir, gastronomically, they are positively illiterate, and it’s a shame! W’y, they don’t know hot biscuits and molasses. They don’t know buttermilk. They don’t know yams. Nor paw-paws, nor persimmons. They don’t even know watermelon. Now isn’t France a backward place?”
“Don’t, Shanks!” Driscoll begged. “You’ll have me heading for Missouri in a minute. You didn’t, uh, mention peach cobbler?”
“And peach cobbler, big as an acre covered with snow. And just think, it’s roastin’ ea’ah time up there now, now!” How Daniel’s voice did mellow under a tender sentiment! “And to think,” he went on, “of the marchioness living on in 504 such ignorance! It’s a thing that’s just got to be remedied, Jack.”
“Then suppose you take her to Missouri,” growled his friend, “and let me alone.”
“I take her? Oh come now, Din, I see I’ve got to tell you something which is–” The Troubadour’s accents grew low and fond, and the other man respected them, with something between a smile and a sigh for his own case. “Which is–well, nobody’s noticed it, but the fact is that Buh’the, that Miss Buh’the––”
“Dan,” interrupted Driscoll severely, “you’re not going to tell me any secret. You mean that you weren’t mistaken when you mistook her for a queen.”
“That–that’s it!” ejaculated Daniel. “Of coh’se,” he added soothingly, “the other one is a–a mighty nice girl, but––”
“Oh, is she? But Miss Burt is the one you want to take to Missouri? Well Dan, why don’t you?”