“I s’pose I should,” Joan nodded, her mirth promptly sobering to a broad smile.
She had almost forgotten her purpose so taken up was she in observing this “scallawag,” as Mrs. Ransford had called him. Nor did it take her impressionable nature more than a second to decide that her worthy housekeeper was something in the nature of a thoroughly stupid woman. She liked the look of him. She liked his easy manner. More than all she liked the confident look of his dark eyes and his sunburnt face, so full of strength.
“Hayforks are cussed things anyway,” the man said, flinging the implement aside as though it had offended him.
Joan watched him. She was wondering how best to approach the questions in her mind. Somehow they did not come as easily as she had anticipated. It was one thing to make up her mind beforehand, and another to put her decision into execution. He was certainly not the rough, uncouth man she had expected to find. True, his language was the language of the prairie, and his clothes, yes, they surely belonged to his surroundings, but there was none of the uncleanness about them she had anticipated.
It was his general manner, however, that affected her chiefly. How tall and strong he was, and the wonderful sunburn on his clean-cut face and massive arms! Then he had such an air of reserve. No, it was not easy.
Finally, she decided to temporize, and wait for an opening. And in that she knew in her heart she was yielding to weakness.
“My housekeeper tells me it was you who handed the farm over to her?” she said interrogatively.
The man’s eyes began to twinkle again.
“Was that your—housekeeper?” he inquired.