“I knew there was something behind those eyes,” said Frances.
“No telling how long he’s been saving it for a chance to work it off on somebody,” Nola said. “He got it out of a book—the Mexicans all have them, full of brindies, what we call toasts, and silly soft compliments like that.”
“I’ve seen them, little red books that they give for premiums with the Mexican papers down in Texas,” Frances nodded, “but Banjo didn’t get that out of a book—it was spontaneous.”
“I must write it down, and compare it with the next time he gets it off.”
“Give him credit for the way he delivered it, no matter where he got it,” Frances laughed. “Many a more sophisticated man than your desert troubadour would have broken his neck over that. He’s in love with you, Nola—didn’t you hear him sigh?”
“Oh, he has been ever since I was old enough to take notice of it,” returned Nola, lightly.
“Oh, my luv’s like a falling star,” paraphrased Frances.
“Not much!” Nola denied, more than half serious. “Venus is ascendant; you keep your eye on her and see.”