"Well, I swan. That's a right good thing. He can fix teeth pretty good, can't he?"
"Yes—no—that is—he says you sent for him. Oh, Lafe."
This was a vastly different woman from the one he had known. Hetty would not look at him, but kept her gaze timidly on a knot in the door and twiddled a ribbon flaring garishly from her waist.
"Pshaw!" said the sheriff, "it's most time Badger done woke up. The doggone rascals, they never take no care of their teeth. I've been reading some about them things, Miss Ferrier, and it's most scandalous how sick people'll get if they don't watch out for their teeth. This book says—"
"Oh, Lafe."
"Do you mean to say you don't want him to come?" he asked. His hand, resting against the doorjamb, began to quiver and jerk.
"No-oo."
"God!"
Hetty was beginning to weep, which was a ridiculous thing to do under the circumstances. The proceedings subsequent to this wholly reverent ejaculation of Lafe's were too utterly idiotic for sober recital. When she had calmed, they stood behind the door, safely out of sight, and the bosom and shoulder of the sheriff's shirt were moist.
"No, I can't," Miss Ferrier was saying, in the weakest voice imaginable. "Everybody knows what a fool I was to come out here to Jackson, and they'll laugh at you. I couldn't bear that, Lafe."