He laughed again and crossed the room to free one curtain that had caught itself on a protruding hook.
"Tim an' me had a great argument, when I brought 'em home. Tim, he says that if I was goin' to have curtains, I ought to go through with th' whole deal an' have gilt rods to hang 'em on. I says, no, that was goin' too far, gettin' to be too dudish, so I nailed 'em up!"
He pointed to show her the six-penny nails that held them in place, and Ann laughed heartily.
"Then, I played a little game that th' boys out here call Monte. It's played with cards, ma'am. I played with a Navajo I know—an' cards—an' he had just one kind of luck, awful bad. That's where these blankets come from,"—smiling in recollection.
All this pleased him; he saw the humor of a man of his physique, his pursuit, furnishing a room with all the pains of a girl.
"Those are good rugs. See? They're all black an' gray an' brown: natural colors. Red an' green are for tourists.
"I bought that serape from a Mexican in Sonora when I was down there lookin' around. That lamp, though, that's th' best thing I got."
He leaned low to blow the dust from its green shade with great pains, and Ann laughed outright at him.
"I never could learn to dust proper, ma'am. It don't bother me so long's I don't see it," he confessed. "A man who came out here to stay with us for his health—a teacher—brought that lamp; when he went back, he left it for me. I think a lot of it."
"You read by it?" she asked.