“And yet you are not contented?”
“Oh, don’t talk of that—of me!” she begged. “I am tired of myself. I just remembered another one on the train that journey—the little variety actress who had her dresses made to look cute and babyish—the one with bleached hair, and they called her Goldie. She looked scared to death when he—Overton—stopped at the window to say good-by. I often wondered why.”
“Oh, you know Dan was a sort of sheriff, or law-and-order man, up there. He might have known her unfavorably, and she was afraid of being identified by him, or something of that sort. She belonged to the rougher element, no doubt.”
“Max, it makes me homesick to think of that country,” she confessed. “Ever since the grass has commenced to be green, and the buds to swell, it seems to me all the woods are calling me. All the sluggish water I see here in the parks and the rivers makes me dream of the rush of the clear Kootenai, and long for a canoe and 324 paddle. Contrive something to make me forget it, won’t you? Make up a party to go somewhere—anywhere. I will be cavalier to your lovely little aunt, and leave you to Margaret.”
“I asked you before why you speak of Margaret and me in that tone?” he said. “Are you going to tell me? You have no reason but your own fancy.”
“Haven’t I? Well, this isn’t fancy, Max—that I would like to see my cousin—you see, I claim them for this once—happy in her own way, instead of unhappy in the life her ambitious family are trying to arrange for her. And I promise to trade some surplus dust for a wedding present just as soon as you conclude to spoil their plans, and make yourself and that little girl and your aunt all happy by a few easily spoken words.”
“But I have just told you I love you.”
“You will know better some day,” she said, and turned away. “Now go and pacify your aunt, won’t you? She seemed so troubled about the modeling—bless her dear heart! I didn’t want to trouble her, but the work—some work—was a necessity to me. I was growing so homesick for the woods.”
After she was left alone, she drew a letter from her pocket, one she had got in the morning mail, and read over again the irregular lines sent by Mrs. Huzzard.
“I got Lavina to write you the letter at Christmas, because I was so tickled with all the things you sent me that I couldn’t write a straight line to save me; and you know the rheumatiz in my finger makes it hard work for me sometimes. But maybe hard work and me is about done with each other, ’Tana; though I’ll tell you more of that next time.