“But you were laughing at me—a little.”
“Not at you, at Fate—the great, big, bugaboo Fate.”
“Why?”
“Because I—can afford to. My luck's—turned.”
“You dear, big, red-headed philosopher.”
“And you—didn't you save my hat?”
“No, dear. Don't worry over such a trifle as a hat. I'll give you a—”
“But this was—a—good hat” he complained. “I paid twenty dollars—”
“Never mind your old hat. Don't talk. I'm selfish. I want to listen to you, but for all that, you must be quiet.”
He sighed. Forget all about that big, wide sombrero—genuine beaver—that cost him twenty dollars only a week ago? His horse, his saddle, his hat, his spurs, his gun—he was particular about these possessions, for in his way Mr. McGraw was something of a frontier dandy. His calm contempt of life and death amused Donna when she compared it with his boyish concern for his dashing equipment. Hats, indeed! Worrying over a lost hat while a guest at the Hat Ranch! If Bob McGraw could only have understood Donna Corblay's contempt for hats he would never have mentioned the matter twice.