“I wonder,” he went on, lazily, “what that débris is on the land which runs back from the store at Fox Cross-roads. It can’t be that anybody was simple enough to go boring for oil.”
She winced; but the smile remained on her face, and she met his eyes quite calmly.
“That pile of débris,” she said, “is, I fancy, the wreck of the house of Elliott. My father did bore for oil and found it—about a pint, I believe.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” cried Burleson, red as a pippin.
“I am not a bit sensitive,” she said. Her mouth, the white, heavy lids of her eyes, contradicted her.
“There was a very dreadful smash-up of the house of Elliott, Mr. Burleson. If you feel a bit friendly towards that house, you will advise me how I may sell ‘The Witch.’ I don’t mind telling you why. My father has simply got to go to some place where rheumatism can be helped—be made bearable. I know that I could easily dispose of the mare if I were in a civilized region; even Grier offered half her value. If you know of any people who care for that sort of horse, I’ll be delighted to enter into brisk correspondence with them.”
“I know a man,” observed Burleson, deliberately, “who would buy that mare in about nine-tenths of a second.”
“Oh, I’ll concede him the other tenth!” cried the girl, laughing. It was the first clear, care-free laugh he had heard from her—and so fascinating, so delicious, that he sat there silent in entranced surprise.
“About the value of the mare,” she suggested, diffidently, “you may tell your friend that she is only worth what father paid for her—”
“Good Lord!” he said, “that’s not the way to sell a horse!”