"I reckon this lady knows her way about, ma'am?"
"She's awfully nice, Lafe. Really she is. When we're alone, I love her. But sometimes, when men are around—well, you saw how she acted."
"Sure," said Lafe, in his soft bass, and he grinned at her. "It ain't what she does, but it's what she don't do. That smile she smothers, now—"
"Have you noticed that, too? Tom did, very first thing. He doesn't like her."
Johnson asked her of her marriage and how it had come about. It was five years since he had seen her, wasn't it? Mrs. Floyd said four, and he murmured that it seemed longer. She laughed, but was pleased, nevertheless. As they rode, she studied him without disguise, and remarked that the gray in his hair was an improvement. He was dressed very poorly, and his boots were down at the heel and worn through the soles, but she did not appear to notice their plight and he suffered no confusion therefrom. Twice she detected him looking from her to Tom, loping in the van.
"What're you thinking about?" she said.
"Nothing much. Ideas don't get much of a hold on me. There ain't nothing to grip."
"I know—I can see it in your face. It's mean of you, Lafe, just because he's forty and—and—well, he's the truest and best—"
"Hold on there. Pull up!" He was chuckling. Abruptly sober: "Sure, I'll bet he's got a kind heart."
She glared at him for an instant. Then they both exploded into laughter and she shook her horse into a gallop.