On the afternoon of the sixth day Dominick made his first appearance down stairs. He achieved the descent with slow painfulness, hobbling between Perley and the doctor. The former’s bath-robe had been cast aside for a dignified dark-brown dressing-gown, contributed to his wardrobe by Cannon, and which, cut to fit the burly proportions of the Bonanza King, hung around the long, lank form of the young man in enveloping folds.
The parlor was empty, save for Miss Cannon sitting before the fire. Dominick had ceased to feel bashfulness and constraint in the presence of this girl, who had been pushed—against his will if not against her own—into the position of his head attendant. The afternoon when they had sat together in his room seemed to have brushed away all his shyness and self-consciousness. He thought now that it would be difficult to retain either in intercourse with a being who was so candid, so spontaneous, so freshly natural. He found himself treating her as if she were a young boy with whom he had been placed on a sudden footing of careless, cheery intimacy. But her outward seeming—what she presented to the eye—was not in the least boyish. Her pale, opaque blondness, her fine, rich outlines, her softness of mien, were things as completely and graciously feminine as the most epicurean admirer of women could have wished.
Now, at the sight of her bending over the fire, he experienced a sensation of pleasure which vaguely surprised him. He was hardly conscious that all the time he had been dressing and while he came down stairs he had been hoping that she would be there. He sent a quick glance ahead of him, saw her, and looked away. The pain of his feet was violent, and without again regarding her he knew that while he was gaining his chair and his attendants were settling him, she had not turned from her contemplation of the fire. He already knew her well enough to have a comfortable assurance of her invariable quick tact. It was not till the two men were leaving the room that she turned to him and said, as if resuming an interrupted conversation,
“Well, how do you like the parlor? Speak nicely of it for I feel as if it belonged to me.”
“It’s a first-rate parlor,” he answered, looking about him. “Never saw a better one. Who’s the gentleman with the wreath of wax flowers round his head?”
“That’s Jim Granger. He comes from here, you know; and you mustn’t laugh at those flowers, they came off his coffin.”
“My father knew him,” said the young man indifferently. “There were lots of queer stories about Jim Granger. He killed a man once up at Bodie. You’ve a fine fire here, haven’t you?”
“Fine. It’s never allowed to go out. What do you think I intend to do this afternoon? I’ve a plan for amusing and instructing you.”
“What is it?” he said somewhat uneasily. “I don’t feel in the least as if I wanted to be instructed.”
She rose and moved to the center-table which was covered with an irregular scattering of books.