Such things said openly have their effect. But the tulips on the dressing-gown did even more, and the high-heeled shoes. She hankered after things in the streets to which the dressing-gown was but a faded flower. Quin spoke to her once as she glared into a window.
"You like that, Jenny?"
"Oh, my," said little greedy Jenny.
Quin didn't care a hang if he spoke to the little klootchman in public. He wasn't in society, for even in the River City there was Society. They drew the line at squaw-men who went to dance-houses and so on. But for that, the Manager and Owner of a Mill (or half one or even a quarter) could have had entrance to the loftiest gaieties and the dullest on earth. He didn't "give a damn," not a "continental," for the "hull boiling," said Quin. Jenny was his mark, you can take your oath.
She was worth it in looks only, that's the best and worst of it.
"Oh, my," said Jenny.
"I'll give it you: it's my potlatsh," said the Manager, who cared little for dollars when the girls came in.
It was a "potlatsh," a gift indeed! To get Jenny, Quin would have done "a big brave's potlatsh" and given away all he owned, horses, mill, house, and all. That's a fact, and it must be remembered as Papp said, that "dey also veels as if dey would braig somedings!"
She got the gorgeous silk of tartan stripes that flared in the window like a light lightening the darkness, for Quin went in and bought what is known as a dress length and sent it down to her by his Chinese "boy." When he met Pete in the road at noon that day he stopped him.
"Oh, Pete——"