A graceful, rather small lady, dressed with elegant simplicity, had come out into the car vestibule.
“Jenny, here’s Miss Knowles now,” said Blake. “She came to meet us herself.”
“That was very good of you, Miss Knowles,” said the lady, as the two advanced towards her. “We 140 are very glad to meet you. Will you not come up out of the sun?”
The white-uniformed porter promptly stood at attention. Blake as promptly offered his hand. The girl accepted his assistance and mounted the car steps with an absence of awkwardness instantly noted by Mrs. Blake. That lady held out a somewhat thin white hand as Isobel drew off her gauntlet gloves. But she did not stop with the light firm handclasp. Lifting the girl’s veil, she kissed her full on her coral lips.
“We shall be friends,” she stated, a smile in her hazel eyes.
“I hope so,” murmured the girl, blushing with delight. “The only question is whether you will like me.”
Mrs. Blake patted the plump, sunbrowned hand that she had not yet relinquished. She was little if any older than the girl, but her air was that of matronly wisdom. “My dear, can you doubt it? I was prepared to like even the kind of young woman my husband told me to expect.”
“Bronco Bess, Queen of the Cattle Camp,” suggested the girl, dimpling. “Wait till you see me rope and hogtie a steer.”
Mrs. Blake smiled, and looked across at Ashton, who sat motionless under the shadow of his big sombrero, his face half averted from the car. 141
“I’ve a real surprise for you,” said the girl. “Mr. Blake, if I may tell it to you also.”