Ashton crumpled the letter in his clenched hand as he had crumpled the letter from his father’s lawyers.
“He is coming! he really is coming!” he gasped. “Thursday––only three days! Genevieve too!”
“And his son!” cried Isobel, too excited to heed the dismay in her companion’s look and tone. “He and his family, too, as my guests!”
“Yes,” said Ashton bitterly. “And what of it when he floods you off your cattle range? By another year or two, the irrigation farmers will be settling all over this mesa, thick as flies.”
“Oh, no; it is probable that Mr. Blake will find there is no chance to water Dry Mesa,” she replied, in a tone strangely nonchalant considering her former expressions of apprehension. She drew the crumpled letter from his relaxing fingers, and smoothed it out for a second reading.
“‘Wife, son, and self,’” she quoted. “Son? How old is he?”
“I don’t know. They’ve been married nearly two years,” muttered Ashton. 119
“Then it’s a baby!––oh! oh! how lovely!” shrieked the girl. “And its mamma wants to rough it! She shall have every egg and chicken on the place––and gallons of cream! We shall take the skim milk.”
Still Ashton failed to enthuse. “To them that have, shall be given, and from him who has lost millions shall be taken all that’s left!” he gibed.
“No, we’ll still have the skim milk,” she bantered, refusing to notice his cynical bitterness.