"Every two months the storekeeper at Windflower Station sends in a man and a string of mules with staples for us. The man takes our further orders and our letters back to civilization."
I nodded.
"He took my letter to you—among one or two others I sent——"
A charming colour came into her cheeks. She was really extremely pretty. I liked that girl. When a girl blushes when she speaks to a man he immediately accepts her heightened colour as a personal tribute. This is not vanity: it is merely a proper sense of personal worthiness.
She said thoughtfully:
"The mail bag which that man brought to us last week contained a letter which, had I received it earlier, would have made my invitation to you unnecessary. I'm sorry I disturbed you."
"I am not," said I, looking into her beautiful eyes.
I twisted my mustache into two attractive points, shot my cuffs, and glanced at her again, receptively.
She had a far-away expression in her eyes. I straightened my necktie. A man, without being vain, ought to be conscious of his own worth.
"And now," she continued, "I am going to tell you the various reasons why I asked so celebrated a scientist as yourself to come here."