The Englishman's feet again mounted the railing in an attempt at nonchalance.
"Well, usually a man at your age—" He laughed. "If it were an old fellow like me—"
"Mr. Baker, I thought you said you really wished me to sit down and chat awhile?"
Scotty colored. "Why, certainly. What makes you think—"
"Let's be natural then."
Scotty stiffened. His feet returned to the floor.
"Blair, you forget—" But somehow the sentence, bravely begun, halted. Few people in real life acted a part with Benjamin Blair's blue eyes upon them. "Ben," he said instead, "I'm an ass, and I beg your pardon. I'll call Florence."
But the visitor's hand restrained him.
"Don't, please. She knows I am here. I saw her a bit ago. Let her do as she wishes." He drew himself up in the cane rocker. "You asked me a question. As far as I know I shall ranch it always. It suits me, and it's the thing I can do best. Besides, I like being with live things. The only trouble I have," he smiled frankly, "is in selling stock after I raise them. I want to keep them as long as they live, and put them in greener pastures when they get old. It's the off season, but I brought a couple of car-loads along with me to Chicago, to the stock-yards. I'll never do it again. It has to be done, I know; people have to be fed; but I've watched those steers grow from calves."
Scotty searched his brain for something relevant and impersonal, but nothing suggested itself. "Ben Blair," he ventured, "I like you."