“Do y’ know, that old Morrison is a fool. I mean to get rid of him, when I take charge here.”
Barbara was silent.
“The old chap doesn’t know enough to last him over night,” pursued David. “I don’t believe you’d ever have gotten into such a hole financially, if it hadn’t been for his running things into the ground. What you want is a couple of capable young men about the place. Of course we’ll keep some decent horses. I’ve bought one already, a beauty! Come out and look at him, Barbie. Or, say, put on your hat and I’ll take you for a spin. We’ll take in the county fair, if you say so. It’s in full blast to-day.”
She arose and folded her work.
“Not to-day, David; I’ve bread to bake. But I’ll come out and look at your horse.”
“You’re getting so confoundedly difficult, Barbara. I never know how to take you,” complained David, as they walked, a little apart, along the gravel path.
He turned to look at her and was struck afresh by her beauty. During the long days of the summer that was past, she seemed to have bloomed into a new and more vivid loveliness. He drew his breath sharply as his eyes lingered on the rich red of her mouth, the full column of her round white throat, and the soft undulations of her figure as she moved slowly under the dazzling light of the September sky.
“If you weren’t such a tearing beauty,” he said, under his breath, “I don’t know as I could stand for it long. You’re forever treading on a fellow’s toes; did you know it, Barbie? Now, I like a woman to be sweet and—er—yielding.”
He smiled at the vision of Jennie, the pink-cheeked waitress at the Barford Eagle, which chose to obtrude itself at the moment. The humble, almost suppliant look of adoration in her childish blue eyes had lately, afforded David a vast amount of indolent amusement.