“Will you dance?” he said.
He had a very charming and subtle smile, a very charming and sympathetic look. The woman was startled, color rose into her face. She stared at him.
“I’m not dancing, Mr. Morena,” she answered.
“You know my name,” smiled Morena; “and I don’t know yours. I’ve been on Mr. Yarnall’s ranch for a month. Why haven’t I seen you?”
“Fer not lookin’, I suppose.” She had given him that one startled glance, and now she had turned her eyes back to the dancers and wore a grim, contemptuous air. Her speeches, though they were cut into short, crisp words, were full of music of a sharp, metallic quality different from the tone of her other speech, but quite as beautifully expressive.
“May I smoke?” asked Morena. He was still smiling his charming smile and watching her out of the corners of his eyes.
“I’m not hinderin’ you any,” said she.
Morena smiled deeper. He took some time making and lighting his cigarette.
“You don’t smoke, yourself?” he asked.
“No.”