“Come up to my tower,” said Patience; “the view is something! That will be your reward. I never took any one there before.”
“All right,” he said, “I may as well make a night of it.” He tethered his horse and followed her up the spiral stair.
“Solomon is not here,” she said regretfully. “He’s out foraging. Now!”
The young man walked to the window and inspected the view. Patience regarded him with rapt admiration. He was tall and strong and well dressed. She had never dreamed that anything romantic could really happen to her; and as she was sure that it would be her last experience as well as her first, she suddenly felt depressed and miserable, her imagination leaping to the finish.
He turned and met her eyes. “What are you thinking of?” he asked.
But Patience was too shy to tell him, and asked him if he liked the view.
“It’s a jolly view and no mistake. You’re not a happy child, are you?” he added, abruptly. With the enthusiasm and spontaneous kindness of his Irish blood he had conceived the idea of dropping a seed in this plastic soil, and was feeling his way toward the right spot.
“I don’t know that I am,” said Patience, haughtily. “I suppose some of those people told you things.”
“Well, they did, that’s a fact. But you mustn’t get angry with me, please, for upon me word I like you better than any one I’ve met in California.”
“Don’t you live here?”