“My name,” he said, “is Kenset––David Kenset, and I am from Washington, D. C.”
He might as well have said Timbuctoo. Tharon Last knew little outside her own environment. Words and names that had to do with unknown places were vague things to her.
“Yes?” she answered politely, “I make no doubt you’ve come far. Come in. Dinner’ll soon be ready,” and she moved back from the door with a smile that covered her pitiful ignorance as with a garment of gold. When Tharon smiled like that she was wholly adorable, and the man knew it at once.
Why she had so quickly invited him in before he had fully declared himself, she did not know, unless it was because of that lack in her which his first words had implied.
Old Anita, whose manners were the simple and perfect ones of the Mexican coupled to a kindly heart, had taught her how to comport.
Her easy and constant association with the riders and vaqueros had dulled her somewhat, but she could be royal on occasion.
Now she simply stepped back in the deep cool room where the ollas swung in the windows, smiled––and 90 she was changed entirely from the girl of a few moments before.
The man came in, laid his hat on the flat top of the melodeon, walked over to a chair and sat down. There was an ease about him, a taking-for-granted, that amazed Tharon beyond words.
Then he looked frankly at her and began to talk as if he had known her always.
“I’ve come to live in Lost Valley, Miss Last,” he said, “for a long while, I think. Wish me luck.”