“Reckon I did—quite a good many.”
“Did y’u go with them?”
“Go with them? Reckon you mean keep company. Why, yes, I guess I did—a little,” laughed Jean. “Sometimes on a Sunday or a dance once in a blue moon, an’ occasionally a ride.”
“Shore that accounts,” said the girl, wistfully.
“For what?” asked Jean.
“Y’ur bein’ a gentleman,” she replied, with force. “Oh, I’ve not forgotten. I had friends when we lived in Texas.... Three years ago. Shore it seems longer. Three miserable years in this damned country!”
Then she bit her lip, evidently to keep back further unwitting utterance to a total stranger. And it was that biting of her lip that drew Jean’s attention to her mouth. It held beauty of curve and fullness and color that could not hide a certain sadness and bitterness. Then the whole flashing brown face changed for Jean. He saw that it was young, full of passion and restraint, possessing a power which grew on him. This, with her shame and pathos and the fact that she craved respect, gave a leap to Jean’s interest.
“Well, I reckon you flatter me,” he said, hoping to put her at her ease again. “I’m only a rough hunter an’ fisherman-woodchopper an’ horse tracker. Never had all the school I needed—nor near enough company of nice girls like you.”
“Am I nice?” she asked, quickly.
“You sure are,” he replied, smiling.