"And so you got my note?" he inquired, stiffening up, yet determined to ignore her touch of sarcasm, and so preserve the peace.
"Oh, yes; Blakeman did not forget. He never forgets anything you tell him. I must say it was very thoughtful of you after our interview a night or two before." This came with a shrug of her shoulders, the smile still flickering about her mouth. "Of course you had a good time?"
"Yes, and I feel twenty years younger," he ventured; "couldn't help it, the way those men took care of me."
"Who?" she asked, still gazing at him curiously.
"Young Holcomb and—"
"Ah, yes, I remember," she mused, while she played with the lace on the sleeve of her gown.
"And there was Freme Skinner and a grizzled, kindly old trapper, named Hite Holt," he added. "I have never met with such sincere hospitality."
"What deliciously amusing names," she sighed, changing her position beneath the lace with the swift suppleness of a kitten. "And what luck hunting?" she asked, as she loosened the ribbon at her throat.
"I killed a smashing big buck," he declared with boyish enthusiasm.
She buried her head once more among the lace pillows and ran one hand through her wealth of hair.