It was a strong and rather a masculine voice, and it grated on one slightly, being scarcely expected from so beautiful a face. In it was power, self-will, ambition—but no tenderness nor that voice, soft and low, which “is an excellent thing in woman.”
He laughed banteringly.
“Did you ever hear that love is not love if it is a minute late? Just see how long I have waited here for you?”
She sat down by his side and looked fondly up into his face, flushed with exercise and smiling half cynically. It was the same smile seen so often on the face of Richard Travis.
“Oh, say,” he said, dolefully, “but don't start the hubby-come-to-taw-business on me until we are married. I was late because I had to steal the Gov'nor's new mare—isn't she a beauty?”
“Oh, say,” he went on, “but that is a good one—he has bought her for somebody he is stuck on—can't say who—and I heard him tell Jim not to let anybody get on her back.
“Well,”—he laughed—“she certainly has a fine back. I stole her out and galloped right straight here.
“You ought to own her,”—he went on flippantly—pinching playfully at the lobe of her ear—“her name is Coquette.”
Then he tried to kiss her again.
“Harry!” she said, pulling away—“don't now—Mammy Maria said I was never to—let you kiss me.”