Tharon turned her head and looked quickly over her shoulder.
“Where?” she asked in surprise.
“There in my big chair.”
“Oh––I meant a woman livin’ here, th’ woman who owns the pretties.”
And she waved a hand at the gay furnishings.
“No,” said Kenset, “these are all my own pretties. I have books, as you see, and my maps and several more pictures to put up, not to mention some Mexican pottery that I brought from Ciudad Juarez, and my chiefest treasure, a tapestry from France. That last I can’t decide upon. I have two splendid spaces––over there between the northern windows, facing the door, and yonder at the end. Perhaps you will be good enough to help me choose.”
There was a boyish eagerness in his voice.
“Will you? After a while, I mean, when you have rested from your ride.”
“Rested?”
Tharon looked at him in wonder. That ride had been like wine to her, a stimulant, a thing that sent the blood pounding in her veins.