Stratton crossed the threshold, instinctively removing his hat. As he remembered it, the room, though of good size and comfortable enough, had been a clutter of purely masculine belongings. He was quite unprepared for the colorful gleam of Navajo rugs, the curtained windows, the general air of swept and garnished tidiness which seemed almost luxury. Briefly his sweeping glance took in a bowl of flowers on the center-table and then came to rest abruptly on a slight, girlish figure just risen from a chair beside it.
“I’d like to see Miss Thorne, please,” he said, stifling his momentary surprise.
The girl took a step forward, her slim, tanned, ringless fingers clasped loosely about a book she held. 30
“I’m Miss Thorne,” she answered in a low, pleasant voice.
Buck gasped and his eyes widened. Then he recovered himself swiftly.
“I mean Miss Mary Thorne,” he explained; “the—er—owner of this outfit.”
The girl smiled faintly, a touch of veiled wistfulness in her eyes.
“I’m Mary Thorne,” she said quietly. “There’s only one, you know.”