Blake showed that he was flattered.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he responded; “the thing’s blamed unhandy. Just the same, I guess we’ll be ready for callers to-night.”
“How’s that?”
“Show you later, Pat, me b’y. Now trot out some nuts. We’ll feed before we move camp.”
“Miss Leslie is still sleeping.”
“Time, then, to roust her out. Hey, Miss Jenny, turn out! Time to chew.”
Miss Leslie sat up and gazed around in bewilderment.
“It’s all right, Miss Genevieve,” reassured Winthrope. “Blake has found a safe place for the night, and he wishes us to eat before we leave here.”
“Save lugging the grub,” added Blake. “Get busy, Pat.”
As Winthrope caught up a nut, the girl began to arrange her disordered hair and dress with the deft and graceful movements of a woman thoroughly trained in the art of self-adornment. There was admiration in Blake’s deep eyes as he watched her dainty preening. She was not a beautiful girl–at present she could hardly be termed pretty; yet even in her draggled, muddy dress she retained all the subtle charms of culture which appeal so strongly to a man. Blake was subdued. His feelings even carried him so far as an attempt at formal politeness, when they had finished their meal.