"Mr. Wynkoop? Why, of course not; he does n't care for women in that way at all."
Miss Spencer bound her hair carefully with a bright ribbon. "Maybe he might, though, some time. All men do."
She sat down in the low rocker, her feet comfortably crossed. "Do you know, Naida dear, it is simply wonderful to me just to remember what you have been through, and it was so beautifully romantic—everybody killed except you and that man, and then he saved your life. It's such a pity he was so miserable a creature."
"He was n't!" Naida exclaimed, in sudden, indignant passion. "He was perfectly splendid."
"Aunt Lydia did n't think so. She wrote he was a common gambler,—a low, rough man."
"Well, he did gamble; nearly everybody does out here. And sometimes I suppose he had to fight, but he wasn't truly bad."
Miss Spencer's eyes evinced a growing interest.
"Was he real nice-looking?" she asked.
Naida's voice faltered. "Ye—es," she said. "I thought so. He—he looked like he was a man."
"How old are you, Naida?"