The path was scarcely wide enough for two; and the high grass on either side confined it even more, so that he was perforce obliged to walk just a shade behind—and talking is difficult when one precedes the other. But it gave him a fine opportunity to observe the woman before him, and he made the best of it.
The morning sun was spinning her auburn hair to gleaming copper, and beneath the dead white of her cheek the blood pulsed faintly pink. The trim, slender figure was, for all its seeming listlessness, alive with latent energy and spirit—her shoulders, even under her jacket, he could see were beautifully proportioned, her neck was slender and long, but not too long—and her feet, even in the heavy shoes, were slim and arched, and she put them down well—distinctly well. A subtle perfume floated back to him, and he found himself bending forward to catch a fuller fragrance. Then the path widened and, half turning, she waited for him to draw up.
"This path evidently wasn't made by the socially inclined," he said.
"It wasn't. It was made originally by the cattle which pastured here—and do so still," she added, as they passed a copse of trees and undergrowth and came upon a herd of a dozen cows with a brawny bull at their head.
The latter, at the sight of the two strangers who were invading his domain, flung up his head and stared at them with a distinctly hostile air.
"His Majesty does not seem pleased with us!" she laughed.
"No—I should say we don't make a favorable impression, judging from his attitude," he answered, glancing carelessly toward the animals.
"He's not properly appreciative of the honor you do him, Mr. Porshinger," she remarked.
He did not quite like the words—he thought he detected just a touch of irony; but she flashed him a smile from her lash-shaded eyes, and the suspicion vanished.
"He doesn't want any one poaching on his pasture," he said.