Almost nowhere, was the reply. What with the French intervention and guerrillas, the Compañia de Diligencias had about suspended its service altogether. “Then,” said Driscoll, “could we hire some sort of a rig from you?” The administrador believed so, though he regretted continuously that Their Mercies must be leaving so soon.
With a nod of thanks Driscoll turned curiously to the loaded shelves, and gazed at the bolts of manta, calico, and red flannel. “Jiminy crickets,” he burst forth, “is there anybody on this ranch who can sew?”
Yes, the wife of one of the clerks was a passable seamstress. She did such work for the Doñas at the House.
118“And can she do some to-day, and can you send it on to overtake me by to-morrow?”
Most certainly.
Then Driscoll invested in a number of varas of calico print. It was the best available. But the light blue flowering was modest enough, and there was even a cheery freshness about it that called up mellowing recollections of bright-eyed Missouri girls. Yet each time he thought of the costumes he had ordered, he blushed until his hair roots tingled.
Intent once more on departure, Din Driscoll hastened back to the House. But he only learned that Jacqueline and Berthe were not up yet. He mumbled at such looseness in discipline, until he remembered that they were not troopers, but girls. And since girls are to be waited for, he did it in his own room. From his saddlebags he laid out shaving material. The Old Brigade had advised these things, while speculating with dry concern on what was correct among emperors. After much sharp snapping of eyes, for the razor pulled, the clean line of his jaw emerged from lather and stubble. “Just in case any emperor should happen in,” he tried to explain it, taking a transparently jocose manner with himself.
Eight o’clock! Even civilized people do not stay abed that late! Yet he found only Berthe in the dining room. She had come on a foraging expedition. He watched the little Bretonne’s deft arranging of a battered tray, and offered droll suggestions until she began to suspect that he really did not mean them. Berthe was a nice girl with soft brown hair, and a serious, gentle way about her.
The maid found mademoiselle not only still abed, but stretched on a rack of torture as well, her helpless gaze fixed on a Mexican woman with a hot iron. It was a flatiron, and it was being applied to Jacqueline’s poor rumpled frock. The dress was spread over a cloth on the floor, and the woman 119strove tantalizingly, and Jacqueline was trying to direct her.
“Madame is served,” Berthe announced.