"By all means, Miss Blythe."
Sitting cross-legged, she gathered her ankles into her hands, settling herself as snugly on the grass as a bird settles on its nest.
"The phenomena of nature," she said, "have always interested me intensely, not only from the artistic angle but from the scientific point of view.
"It is different with father. He is a painter; he cares only for the artistic aspects of nature. Phenomena of a scientific nature bore him. Also, you may have noticed that he is of a—a slightly impatient disposition."
I had noticed it. He had been anything but civil to me when I arrived the night before, after a five-hundred mile trip on a mule, from the nearest railroad—a journey performed entirely alone and by compass, there being no trail after the first fifty miles.
To characterize Blythe as slightly impatient was letting him down easy. He was a selfish, bad-tempered old pig.
"Yes," I said, answering her, "I did notice a negligible trace of impatience about your father."
She flushed.
"You see I did not inform my father that I had written to you. He doesn't like strangers; he doesn't like scientists. I did not dare tell him that I had asked you to come out here. It was entirely my own idea. I felt that I must write you because I am positive that what is happening in this wilderness is of vital scientific importance."
"How did you get a letter out of this distant and desolate place?" I asked.