“I thought you must be a stranger,” she replied. She brought her glance to his face now and seemed to explore it affectionately, as one does a new book by a favorite author. “I’ve never seen you before, either.”
“I’ve been to several entertainments at the Mesquite Club.”
“Oh! ... the Mesquite Club. I’ve never been there.”
He looked at her in his steadfast fashion for a moment, and then changed the subject. “You have rather more than your share of shade here. I had no idea there was such a pretty place in Eagle Pass.” He glanced at the old mesquite-tree in the yard. It was really quite a tree.
“Yes,” she assented. She added, somewhat falteringly: “But it seems dreadfully lonesome sometimes.”
(I do not forget that path which led from Sylvia’s back door down to the Rio Grande, nor the men who traversed it; yet I believe that she spoke from her heart, and that her words were essentially true.)
“Perhaps you’re not altogether at home in Eagle Pass: I mean, this isn’t really your home?”
“No. We came from San Antonio a year ago, my father and I.”
His glance wandered up the brick walk to the cottage door, but if Sylvia perceived this and knew it for a hint, she did not respond.
Harboro thought of other possibilities. He turned toward the desert. “There, the sun’s dipping down beyond that red ridge,” he said. “It will be cooler now. Won’t you walk with me?—I’m not going far.”