He ceased, and sunk his face in his hands again. The breeze stirred the grizzled-brown hair on his temples, and he remained still for so long that she thought he had fallen asleep; but presently he seemed to rouse himself a little, and said idly, in a low voice:
“Men like me don’t have to care what people say, or think, about us. Ever since Mother died, I’ve been practically alone in the world, and steered my course as I saw fit—just gone ahead and done what I thought was right. Am I the worse man for being poor, I wonder? I’ve never crawled to hold a job—or for money, anyway! Badly though I’ve always wanted it. For it makes all the difference in the world—money. I’ve kept my self-respect as far as that goes—poor consolation though it may be now—just when I need it most.”
The girl flicked him with her quirt.
“Don’t you think we’d better be going?” she said gently. “It’s getting late. The sun’s gone down a long time now.”
At the touch, and the sound of her voice, he roused himself with a start and regarded her absently.
“By George!” he muttered. “I must have been dreaming. Sorry, Miss O’Malley.” He pulled out his watch. “Sure is late,” he said. “Why didn’t you give me a good slap and wake me up before? Letting me go to sleep like that. Well, I guess we’ll toddle on down to the horses.”
“You haven’t been asleep,” she said, with a faint smile. “But you’ve been sitting there talking away to yourself like a man in a dream.”
He flushed, and laughed a little, shamefacedly.
“Have I?” he answered. “I sure must be getting as ‘nutty’ as a sheep herder! What was I talking about?”
“Oh, all sorts of things,” she said evasively. “I’ll tell you sometime.”