But she put her warm arm round his neck, and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“I should like to have pretty dresses and gold bracelets and things, and to go away from William Jones and to stay with you.”
“My dear,” said Brinkley, laughing, “you couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Why not?” asked Matt simply.
“The world is censorious little one. I am a young man, you are a young lady. We shall have to shake hands soon and say good-bye. There, there,” he continued, seeing her eyes fill with tears, “I’m not gone yet. I shall stay as long as I can, only—really—you must look upon me as quite an old fellow. I am awfully old, you know, compared to you.”
He gently disengaged himself, and Matt sat down on a camp stool close by. Her face had grown very wistful and sad, “Matt,” he said, anxious to change the subject, “tell me something more about William Jones.”
“I hate William Jones. I hate everybody—but you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I feel greatly flattered. But about the gentle Jones? You say he was out all last night.”