“King Cole has been acting badly all day,” she said. “I shall have a time catching him.” She limped forward a few steps.
“Here, that won’t do!” said I. “Let me.”
“You couldn’t get near him—though, perhaps, if you had some salt—”
“I can get some at my place,” said I, gathering up my things. “Your horse is headed that way. You’d better come along and rest there while Ching Lung and I round up your mount.”
(Comment by C. K.: Here follows more talk, showing how young people imperceptibly and unconsciously cement an acquaintance; but not one word upon the vital point of how far the horse seemed to have come, whether he was ridden out, or fresh, etc.)
At the bungalow I called Ching, and we set out with a supply of salt. King Cole (Comment by C. K.: Probably a dead-black horse) was coy for a time, before he succumbed to temptation. On my return I found my visitor in the studio. She had said that she knew a little about pictures. She knew more than a little, a good deal, in fact, and talked most intelligently about them. I don’t say this simply because she tried, before she went, to buy some of mine. When I declined to sell she seemed put out.
“But surely these prints of yours aren’t the work of an amateur,” she said. “You sell?”
“Oh, yes, I sell—when I can. But I don’t sell without a good bit of bargaining; particularly when I suspect my purchaser of wishing to make amends by a purchase.”
“It isn’t that at all,” she said earnestly. “I want the pictures for themselves.”
“Call this a preliminary then, and come back when you have more time.”