He led the way to the door, stepped back and let her enter. As she did so she passed close to 142 him and caught the scent of him, the clean soft smell of shaving soap, blended with the aroma of good tobacco.
That, too, was different.
Inside the cabin there was a sense of comfort, of brightness. The long pennants, like captured rainbows, tacked to the rough walls, the soft toned prints, the gay cushions, all these lent an air of permanence, of home, that she had never before seen in a man’s cabin. She stood and looked all around with that same half-insolent stare which had greeted Kenset at the Holding that memorable day.
Then she went slowly forward and sat down in the big chair by the table.
The man stood in her presence for a moment, thereby giving a subtle effect of deference which was not wholly lost upon Tharon, though she would have been at a loss to define it.
Then, he, too, sat down on the edge of the table desk in the corner, and with folded arms waited while she finished her scrutiny of the interior.
“I am proud of my home, Miss Last,” he said presently. “What do you think of it?”
“I think,” said Tharon slowly, “that it looks like there’s a woman somewhere.”
This time Kenset laughed in earnest, a ringing 143 peal that startled El Rey at the doorstep, and made him clink his bit-chains.
“There is,” said the man, “assuredly.”