Buck flashed a glance at the two Mannings, still within hearing. “If you don’t mind,” he answered briefly.
In the living-room she turned and faced him, her back against the table, on which she rested the tips of her outspread fingers. She was so evidently nerving herself for an interview she dreaded that Buck almost regretted having forced it.
“I won’t keep you a minute,” he began hurriedly. “Tex tells me you have no more use for me here.”
“I’m—sorry,” fell almost mechanically from her set lips.
“But he didn’t tell me why.”
Her eyes, which from the first had scarcely left his face, widened, and a puzzled look came into them.
“But you must know,” she returned a trifle stiffly.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” he assured her.
“Oh—duties!” She spoke with a touch of soft impatience. “It’s what you’ve done, not what you haven’t done that—. But surely this is a waste of time? It’s not particularly—pleasant; and I don’t see what will be gained by going into all the—the details.”
Something in her tone stung him. “Still, it doesn’t seem quite fair to condemn even a common 168 cow-puncher unheard,” he retorted with a touch of sarcasm.