“I—I like you, ma’am,” she cried impulsively. “But,” she added, with a note of real regret, “you don’t belong around here.”
Blanche was lounging in the old frame rocker, with its rawhide seat, which, years ago, George Marton had designed for his own comfort. It was capacious beyond her needs, for all she was tall and of shapely proportions. Molly had insisted. She had set Blanche there while she went about her business preparing the meal which stood ready on the cook-stove. Molly was happy. A sense of delight in this woman’s presence thrilled her. And she chattered and laughed as she went about her preparations, with a light-heartedness that entirely captivated the other.
Ordinarily Lightning would have shared the meal with the girl. But, in the circumstances, Molly knew the old man would not put in an appearance if he waited for his food till the evening supper. The cattleman had definite notions about eating as he had about most things. He disliked the observation of strangers. Perhaps he realised that years of bunk-house life had by no means added to his limited stock of table manners. And Molly was relieved and glad.
Blanche surveyed the simple furnishings of Molly’s living-room, and sought to learn something of the girl from her surroundings. It was Molly she had come to see. And for the moment nothing and nobody else mattered.
The smell of cooking was appetising. The sight of a boiling kettle on the stove, and the warming teapot beside it, were a positive joy to Blanche. And, rocking herself leisurely, and listening to the girl’s chatter, she contemplated the thing she had yet to do. She knew that in a few moments she must resort to subterfuge. It was worse than that. It was downright lying. And to her frank nature it was an outrage. The more so that the victim of it was a girl of such transparent simplicity. But it could not be helped.
Molly had passed over to the stove to ladle out the hash and beans into the hot dish prepared for them.
“You haven’t asked me yet where I come from, Molly,” Blanche said gently. “Maybe you’re not interested. Is that so?”
Molly turned hastily. She wondered if she had displeased.
“I surely am interested,” she protested. Then the colour mounted to her cheeks. “I just didn’t feel I’d a right to ask. You hadn’t said.”