Meta drew away her hand and pressed it in silence on her heart. No woman of Anglo-Saxon blood, without a vast amount of training, could have said so much and said it so naturally with a gesture so hackneyed.
Henniker looked at her from under his eyebrows, biting his mustache. He took a few steps away from her, and then came back.
"Meta," he said, in a different voice, "what was that thing you wore around your neck, the other night, at the minstrels,—that filigree gold thing, eh?"
The girl looked up, astonished; then her eyes fell, and she colored angrily. No Indian or dog could hate to be laughed at more than Meta; and she had been so teased about her innocent make-believe necklace! Had the girls been spreading the joke? She had suddenly outgrown the childish good faith that had made it possible for her to deck herself in it, and she wished never to hear the thing mentioned again. She hung her head and would not speak.
Henniker's suspicions were characteristic. Of course a girl like that must have a lover. Her face confessed that he had touched upon a tender spot.
"It was a pretty thing," he said coldly. "I wonder if I could get one like it for Callie?"
"I don't think Callie would wear one even if you gave it to her," Meta answered with spirit.
"I say, won't you tell me which of the boys it is, Meta?—Won't I wear the life out of him, just!" he added to himself.
"Is what?"
"Your best fellah; the one who gave you that."