Something in him, the same quality which had made the Judge smile back through his rebuke concerning the green apricots, held them all. The Judge spoke first:
“Very well, Mr.—”
“Chester—Bertram Chester,” said the youth, throwing his self-introduction straight at the girl.
“Mr. Chester is one of the University boys who are picking for us this summer,” said Judge Tiffany.
“Yes?” replied the girl in a balanced, incurious tone. Her eyes followed Mr. Chester, while he took the reins from the deposed Antonio and waited for her to mount the buckboard. As she sprang up, after a final caution from Mrs. Tiffany, she perceived that he was going to “help her in.” With a motion both quick and slight, she evaded his hand and sprang to the seat unaided.
Mr. Chester slapped the reins, clucked to the horse, and bent his gaze down upon the girl. He had seated himself all too close. She crowded herself against the iron seat-rail. It annoyed her a little; it embarrassed her still more. She was slightly relieved when he made a beginning of conversation. 9
“So you’re Judge Tiffany’s niece, the girl who runs her ranch herself. I’ve heard heaps about you.”
“Yes?” Embarrassment came back with the sound of her own voice. She could talk to Judge Tiffany or to any man of Judge Tiffany’s age, but with her male contemporaries she felt always this same constraint. And this young man was looking on her insistently, as though demanding answers.
“They say you’re one of the smartest ranchers in these parts,” he went on.
“Do they?” Her tone was even and inexpressive. But Mr. Chester kept straight along the path he was treading.