“The gracious lady has hit it exactly,” said the banker with an assumed voice. “I am a horse jockey, bent on euchreing this young gentleman out of a splendid pair of horses.”
“Friend Seraphin is most lovely,” said she in an undertone. “How well the country costume becomes him!” And her sparkling eyes darted expressive glances at the subject of her compliments.
For the first time she had called him friend, and the word friend made him more happy than titles and honors that a prince might have bestowed. He felt his soul kindle at the sight of the lovely being whose delicate and bewitching coquetry the inexperienced youth failed to detect, but the influence of which he was surely undergoing. His cheeks glowed still more highly, and he became uneasy and embarrassed.
“Your indulgent criticism is encouraging, Miss Louise,” replied he.
“I have merely told the truth,” replied she.
“But our hands—what are we to do with our hands?” interposed Carl. “Soft white hands like these do not belong to drovers. First of all, away with diamonds and rubies. Gold rings and precious stones are not in keeping with blouses. Nor will it do, in hot weather like this, to bring gloves to our aid—that’s too bad! What are we to do?”
“Nobody will notice our hands,” thought Seraphin.
“My good fellow, you do not understand the situation. We are on the eve of the election. Everybody is out electioneering. Whoever to-day visits a public place must expect to be hailed by a thousand eyes, stared at, criticised, estimated, appraised, and weighed. The deuce take these hands! Good advice would really be worth something in this instance.”
“To a powerful imagination like your own,” added Louise playfully. She disappeared for a moment and then returned with a washbowl. Pouring the contents of her inkstand into the water, she laughingly pointed them to the dark mass.