“ADIOS, SENOR,” she replied, facing him again. She lifted the little carbine to the hollow of her elbow and, half turning, appeared ready to depart.
“Adios means good-by?” he queried.
“Yes, good-by till to-morrow or good-by forever. Take it as y’u like.”
“Then you’ll meet me here day after to-morrow?” How eagerly he spoke, on impulse, without a consideration of the intangible thing that had changed him!
“Did I say I wouldn’t?”
“No. But I reckoned you’d not care to after—” he replied, breaking off in some confusion.
“Shore I’ll be glad to meet y’u. Day after to-morrow about mid-afternoon. Right heah. Fetch all the news from Grass Valley.”
“All right. Thanks. That’ll be—fine,” replied Jean, and as he spoke he experienced a buoyant thrill, a pleasant lightness of enthusiasm, such as always stirred boyishly in him at a prospect of adventure. Before it passed he wondered at it and felt unsure of himself. He needed to think.
“Stranger shore I’m not recollectin’ that y’u told me who y’u are,” she said.
“No, reckon I didn’t tell,” he returned. “What difference does that make? I said I didn’t care who or what you are. Can’t you feel the same about me?”