"I guess I'll go and help," said Daisy, looking brightly cornerwise at her companion, who still seemed to have the fight on his mind. Nick Cluett at this, came out of his half-reverie and, crossing the room, sat down beside Daisy. He looked at her a moment in a queer way; then put out a strong hand, with black hair growing along the finger-sinews, and laid it on hers. Daisy noticed that the middle knuckle looked purplish.
"Well, m' little girl," he said, "how goes it?"
"What's happened your hand?" said Daisy; putting her head on one side, softly touching the discolored knuckle, then looking at him through down-held lashes.
Cluett glanced down casually. "Oh, nothing," he said, "just a little accident. But you ain't told me how you are, yet."
"Oh, I—I'm sick in bed," said Daisy, putting her free hand up to her face, and bringing two dancing irises to bear on Mr. Cluett through the fingers of it.
"You're a little devil," commented Mr. Cluett, inching over and putting his arm around her. Daisy's eyes, fairly coruscating with coquetry and resource, flashed down at the hand that pressed her waist. First she pretended to look at it from one angle; then from another.
"I don't like the looks of it," she said, "take it away."
"Do you mean that?" said Nick Cluett. The dark face, with its queer stationary smile and its eyes full of a warming light, came close to hers. Daisy waited dimpling till the rough cheek, bluish with its day's growth of stiff hair-stubble, almost touched her ear. Then, exploding into light quick action, she cast away the encircling arm and hopped to her feet.
"I'm going to help get the supper," she said; and, before Nick Cluett could stop her, whisked to the dining-room door and flung it open.
"What's bust loose?" said Miss Yockley, who was making coffee.