"Oh, a tramp, a loafer, a bum."
"I on'erstan'," she said. "We got hoboes, too. My mot'er's 'osban' is a hobo."
She looked at his chin again. "Bishop Lajeunesse not scrape his chin," she stated. "Got long hair, so. He is fine man."
Sam, not knowing exactly what to say, remained silent. He found it difficult to accommodate himself to a conversational Bela. She was much changed in the morning light from the inscrutable figure of the fire-side. Ten times more human and charming, it is true, but on that account the more disconcerting to a young man, without experience of the sex. Moreover, her beauty took his breath away. Bela watched his blushes with interest.
"What mak' your face hot?" she asked. "There is no fire."
He could not but believe she was making fun of him. "Ah! cut it out!" he growled.
"White men fonny," said Bela, rolling her strips of cotton.
"Funny!" repeated Sam. "How about you? Hanged if you're not the strangest thing I ever came across."
Obviously this did not displease her. She merely shrugged.
He forgot some of his self-consciousness in his curiosity. "Where do you come from?" he asked, drawing nearer. "Where do you go to?"—"You wonderful creature!" his eyes added.