"Doubtless," she said, with condescension, "some good girl will take pity on you."
He looked squarely in her eyes. "Mebbe—though the country isn't overstocked. Still, they've been coming in some of late."
The suddenness of it made her gasp. How dare he? Even if he had been a man of her own station! Turning, she looked off and away, giving him a cold, if pretty, shoulder, till instinct told her that he was making good use of his opportunities. But when she turned back he was discreetly eying the ponies, apparently lost in thought.
His preoccupation permitted minute study, and in five minutes she had memorized his every feature, from the clean profile to the strong chin and humorous mouth. A clean, wholesome face she thought it. She failed, however, to classify him for, despite his homely speech, he simply would not fit in with the butchers, bakers, and candle-stick makers of her limited experience. One thing she felt, and that very vividly: he was not to be snubbed or slighted. So—
"Do we follow the railroad much farther?" she asked.
"A smart mile," he answered. Then, with a sidelong glance at the space between them, he added, "I wouldn't sit on the rail."
"Thank you," she said, coldly. "I'm quite comfortable."
"Tastes differ," he genially commented. Then, stretching his whip, he added, "See that wolf!"
In a flash she abolished the space. "Oh, where? Will he—follow us?"
"Mebbe not," he said, adding, as he noticed a disposition on her part to edge out, "But he shorely looks hungry."