“Walter didn’t,” Keble retorted. “And Walter’s little finger is worth more than his mother’s eternal soul.”
“Walter is a man, dear. Mrs. Boots doesn’t like me, and her soul is worth thousands of little fingers,—or toes, rather.” She was stroking his coon-skin coat.
“Toes, rather? . . . Oh, I see—Boots, toes.”
Without warning he caught her in his arms and kissed her. “You preposterous person!” he laughed, a little abashed by his flare of passion.
They returned silently to the hotel porch, where they were joined by Miriam and the doctor. The stage had arrived and they were discussing the state of the mountain road. Keble climbed into the sleigh.
When everyone had said good-bye, and the horses had been set into motion, Keble turned to Miriam with a parting admonition regarding business letters, then added, “Keep an eye on Louise, now that she’s come to life again. And do give the monkey an occasional piece of sugar.”
The last injunction was a facetious allusion to a remark made some weeks previously by Mr. Brown, who had declared that Keble was spoiling the baby as much as his wife spoiled her circus horse.
When the stage had disappeared, Louise turned to Miriam with an air of being lost. “Isn’t it strange,” she said, “to think of going back alone! I never realized before how completely it’s Keble that makes the ranch go round. I feel like la délaissée,—you know the girl in the ditty: qui pleure nuit et jour.”
“Good gracious, Louise, don’t tell me you’re turning sentimental on top of everything.”
“It would only be re-turning. I’ve always been sentimental under the surface. At least I used to be with my dolls. And for some reason I’ve felt like a little girl this morning.”