And, "Where is your home?" came from Aunt Ellen, as if she had just recognized the fact that he must have one somewhere but had never thought about it before.
The sound of his voice, gruff as a day laborer's after these flute-sweet tones, increased his embarrassment. Nevertheless he determined that he would tell them about his home.
"Up in Sacramento County not far from the tules. My father's a rancher, has a little bit of land there."
"Yes, Charlie Crowder told us," said Lorry. She didn't seem to notice the "little bit of land," it was just as if he'd said four or five thousand acres and described a balconied house with striped awnings and cushioned chairs.
He cast a glance of gratitude toward her, met her eyes and dropped his own to his cup. There they encountered his hand, holding the coffee spoon, the little finger standing out from the others in a tricksy curve. With an inward curse he straightened it, sudden red dyeing his face to the temples. He began to hate himself and didn't know how to go on.
Chrystie unexpectedly came to the rescue.
"Sacramento County," she exclaimed with sudden animation, "not far from the tules! There was a holdup round there two or three weeks ago. I read it in the papers."
Aunt Ellen moved restlessly. She wanted to get to her chair in the drawing-room.
"Holdup?" she murmured. "They're always having holdups somewhere."
"Not like this," said Chrystie. "It was a good one—Knapp and
Garland—and they shot Wells Fargo's messenger."