“Good morning. The ponies are ready and needing exercise,” he announced.
At this moment Marie appeared at the door of her mistress’ tent.
Her costume was irreproachable; her figure as nearly perfect as a small, well-rounded person’s figure can be. But Marie’s expression, as she surveyed the new guide, changed from the disconsolate to the disdainful.
“Evidently this was the type of man the West produced. He had no style, no manners—and his clothes!” As Marie gazed at the rough gray flannel shirt, the rusty gray hat and discolored khaki trousers, and her mind went back to the immaculate persons she was in the habit of seeing in the lobbies of the theaters on Broadway, she visibly shuddered.
It was barely possible that Mr. Jefferson Simpson understood her expression.
“Perhaps Mam’selle will come along; the trail may be a bit steep, but we shall not go far; and perhaps it may be best to have an older person with us. There is a little trick burro I can have ready in a moment.”
Marie refused to reply; shrugging her shoulders, she vanished inside the tent.
But Mrs. Burton exchanged a brief glance with the new Camp Fire guide. Did he also understand that Marie was extremely sensitive about her age and that she expected to be regarded as a girl, although undoubtedly she must have been nearer thirty than twenty. The shadow of a smile was exchanged between them.
At the same instant Peggy and Vera and Bettina came out from their tent, having changed into their riding costumes—short skirts and trousers and high boots.
Peggy kissed her aunt farewell and, rather shyly at her invitation, both Vera and Bettina followed suit. Not that Polly Burton was usually demonstrative, except with the few persons whom she really loved. But she wished to make amends to Bettina and, at the moment, this appeared the only way.