Conversation languished. Austin, unseen by the miserable Thomas on the front seat, and unreproved by the weary and chilly Sylvia, "tucked the robe around her" and then, apparently, forgot to take his arm away. Moreover, he searched in the darkness for her small, cold fingers, and gathered them into his free hand, which was warm and big and strong. As they neared the house, he spoke to her.
"The next time you want to go to 'a show' I guess I'd better take you myself, after all," he whispered. "You'll find a hot-water bag in your bed, and hot lemonade in the thermos bottle on the little table beside it. I put a small 'stick' in it—oh, just a twig! And I've kept the kitchen fire up. The water in the tank's almost boiling, if you happen to feel like a good tub—"
He helped her out, and held open the front door for her gravely. Then, closing it behind her, he turned to Thomas.
"You'd better run along, too," he said, with a slight drawl; "I'll put the horse up."
"Oh, go to hell!" sobbed Thomas.
CHAPTER XI
"So you refused Weston's offer of three hundred dollars for Frieda?"
"Yes, father. Do you think I was wrong?"
"Well, I don't know. That's a good deal of money, Austin."
"I know, but think what she cost to import, and the record she's making! I told him he might have two of the brand-new bull calves at seventy-five apiece."