She's carrying on with your silly Englishman now, but it's just to pay
those old cats back in their own coin. She'll carry on with him--yes!
But marry? Good heavens and earth! Marriage is serious!" With this
novel conclusion she seized another glass and began to wipe it
viciously. She glared at me, seeming to believe that she had closed
the interview. But I couldn't stop. In some curious way she had
stirred me rather out of myself--but not about the Klondike woman nor
about the Honourable George. I began most illogically, I admit, to
rage inwardly about another matter.
"You have other associates," I exclaimed quite violently, "those
cattle-persons--I know quite all about it. That Hank and Buck--they
come here on the chance of seeing you; they bring you boxes of candy,
they bring you little presents. Twice they've escorted you home at
night when you quite well knew I was only too glad to do it----" I
felt my temper most curiously running away with me, ranting about
things I hadn't meant to at all. I looked for another outburst from
her, but to my amazement she flashed me a smile with a most enigmatic
look back of it. She tossed her head, but resumed her wiping of the
glass with a certain demureness. She spoke almost meekly:
"They're very old friends, and I'm sure they always act right.
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