"It was very fair and generous of you to send me the letter, I recognize that fully. But of course I can't accept such a sacrifice," she told him stiffly.
"Not necessary you should. Object if I smoke here?"
Valencia was a little surprised. He had never before offered to smoke in the house except at her suggestion. "As you please, Mr. Gordon. Why should I object?"
From his coat pocket Dick took the letter Don Bartolomé had written to his son, and from his vest pocket a match. He twisted the envelope into a spill, lit one end, and found a cigarette. Very deliberately he puffed the cigarette to a glow, holding the letter in his fingers until it had burned to a black flake. This he dropped in the fireplace, and along with it the unsmoked cigarette.
Holding the letter in his fingers until it had burned to a black flake
"Easiest way to settle that little matter," he said negligently.
"I judge you're a little impulsive, too, sometimes, Mr. Gordon," Valencia replied coldly.
"I never rode all night over the mountains to save a man who was trying to rob me of my land," he retorted.
This brought a sparkle to her eyes. "I had to think of my foolish men who were getting into trouble."