“Who is this man?”
“My husband's name is Robert McGraw.”
Six separate and distinct gasps greeted this announcement extraordinary. A tear trembled on the eyelid of one of the ladies of whom Donna was really fond and whom she had reason to believe was fond of her.
“Well, dearie” replied Mrs. Pennycook unctuously, “it's kind o' hard-like to tell whether, in your present—er—delicate condition, you're better off unmarried-like, or the wife of a man accused of holdin' up a stage at Garlock.”
“It is embarrassing, isn't it?” Donna laughed. She was not in the least angry with Mrs. Pennycook. In fact, the gossip amused her very much, and in the knowledge of the day of reckoning coming to Mrs. Pennycook she could afford to laugh. “What does Dan think about it?”
“Mr. Pennycook, if you please” corrected his wife. “We will not mention his name in this matter.”
“Well, then, what do you think of it, Mrs. Pennycook?”
“To be perfectly frank-like, an' not meanin' any offense, I think, Miss Corblay, that you drove your pigs to a mighty poor market.”
“It does look that way” Donna acquiesced good-naturedly. “I'll admit that appearances are against my husband. However, since I know that the charge is ridiculous, I shall not dishonor him by making a defense where none is necessary. He will be in San Pasqual about the first of April, Mrs. Pennycook, and if at that time you desire to learn the circumstances, he will be charmed, I know, to relate them to you.”
“I am not interested” retorted the gossip.