“This looks very cozy after my desolate room at the Range,” he remarked.
“Then if you’ll stay I’ll cook you supper. I suppose there’s nothing to take you home?”
“No,” declared Hawtrey with a significant glance at her, “there certainly isn’t, Sally. As a matter of fact, I often wish there was.”
He saw her sudden uncertainty, which was, however, not tinged with embarrassment, and feeling that he had gone far enough he went out to put up his team. When he returned there was a cloth on the table, and Sally was busy about the stove. He sat down and watched her attentively. In some respects, he thought she compared favorably with Agatha. She had a nicely molded figure, and a curious lithe gracefulness of carriage which was suggestive of a strong vitality. Agatha’s bearing was usually characterized by a certain frigid repose. Then Sally’s face was at least as comely as Agatha’s, though attractive in a different way, and there was no reserve in it. Sally was what he thought of as human, frankly flesh and blood. Her quick smile was, as a rule, provocative, and never chilled one as Agatha’s quiet glances sometimes did.
“Sally,” he said, “you’ve grown prettier than ever.”
The girl turned partly towards him with a slow, sinuous movement.
“Now,” she replied quickly, “you oughtn’t to say those things to me.”
Hawtrey laughed; he was usually sure of his ground with Sally.
“Why shouldn’t I, when I’m telling the truth?”
“For one thing, Miss Ismay wouldn’t like it.”