Just after that Dick galloped up, his elbows flapping like the wings of
a frightened hen.
"Well, I suppose you could run a cow outfit all by yourself, with the
knowledge you've got from Keith," he greeted, and two people became even
more embarrassed than before. If Dick noticed anything, he must have
been a wise young man, for he gave no sign.
But Beatrice had not queened it in her set, three seasons, for nothing,
even if she was capable of being confused by a sweet, new language in a
man's eyes. She answered Dick quietly.
"I've been so busy watching it all that I haven't had time to ask many
questions, as Mr. Cameron can testify. It's like a game, and it's very
fascinating--and dusty. I wonder if I might ride in among them, Dick?"
"Better not, sis. It isn't as much fun as it looks, and you can see more
out here. There comes milord; he must have changed his mind about the
letter."
Beatrice did not look around. To see her, you would swear she had set
herself the task of making an accurate count of noses in that seething
mass of raw beef below her. After a minute she ventured to glance
furtively at Keith, and, finding his eyes turned her way, blushed again
and called herself an idiot. After that, she straightened in the saddle,
and became the self-poised Miss Lansell, of New York.
Keith rode away to the far side of the herd, out of temptation; queer a
man never runs from a woman until it is too late to be a particle of
use.
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