"Sure. I ain't gonna wait. Wha's the matter with to-morrow?"
"I haven't any clothes made," she evaded, and added by way of diversion, "I always liked that kinda golden down on your cheeks."
"The stores are full of 'em. An' we ain't talkin' about my whiskers—not right now."
"You're a nice old thing," she whispered, flashing into unexpected dimples, and she rewarded him for his niceness in a way he thought altogether desirable.
A crisp, strong step sounded outside. The door opened and Clay came into the room.
He looked at Kitty. "Thank Heaven, you're safe," he said.
"Johnnie rescued me," she cried. "He got shot—in the shoulder."
The men looked at each other.
"Bad, Johnnie?"
"Nope. A plumb li'l' scratch. Wha's the matter with you?"