“I’m not,” protested Nora indignantly. “If you think you’re the only man on the place, Jim McWilliams.”
“Sho! Hold your hawsses a minute, Nora, darling. A spinster like y’u—”
“You think you’re awful funny—writing in my autograph album that a spinster’s best friend is her powder box. I like Mr. Halliday’s ways better. He’s a perfect gentleman.”
“I ain’t got a word to say against Denver, even if he did write in your book,
“‘Sugar is sweet,
The sky is blue,
Grass is green
And so are you.’
I reckon, being a perfect gentleman, he meant—”
“You know very well you wrote that in yourself and pretended it was Mr. Halliday, signing his name and everything. It wasn’t a bit nice of you.”
“Now do I look like a forger?” he wanted to know with innocence on his cherubic face.
“Anyway you know it was mean. Mr. Halliday wouldn’t do such a thing. You take your arm down and keep it where it belongs, Mr. McWilliams.”
“That ain’t my name, Nora, darling, and I’d like to know where my arm belongs if it isn’t round the prettiest girl in Wyoming. What’s the use of being engaged if—”