Then, somewhat to her astonishment, he took out his watch, and pointed to the guard. It was of plain plaited leather, and had, she fancied, probably cost about twenty-five cents.
“I don’t know whether this could be considered part of a prospecting outfit, but they had a bunch of them in the store,” he said. “I felt I should like some trifle that I could wear to remember our trip in the ranges. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”
A momentary trace of embarrassment became visible in his companion’s face. The man was a bush packer, and she had seen him in somewhat disreputable company, but she was ready to admit that he had aroused her curiosity. She could be honest, and she would have admitted it as readily had she never heard from Arabella Kinnaird of his connection with the old hall in England. She looked at him, with a little laugh.
“Oh,” she said, “everybody likes to be remembered, and I’m no exception in that respect. There is really no reason why you shouldn’t have bought the guard.”
Weston, who felt that he had gone quite far enough, merely bent his head in a manner that, as she naturally noticed, the average bush packer would not have adopted. It was she who first spoke again.
“You were successful in your search?” she asked.
Weston laughed.
“Do I look like a man who has just found a goldmine?”
“Well,” said the girl, with a twinkle in her eyes, “I came across two successful prospectors in Vancouver not long ago, and there was really nothing to suggest it in their appearance. So you didn’t find the mine? Won’t you tell me about your journey?”
“It’s quite a story. Won’t the others miss you?”