Here
there were many deep, soft leather chairs, here there was a blue
atmosphere of tobacco smoke, and here Mr. Crawford, immaculate in
white flannels, rose to meet him, his hand outstretched.
"How do you do, Conniston?" Mr. Crawford took his hand warmly, the
fine lines of his stern old face softening genially. "I was mighty
glad when Argyl told me that she had asked you over. Sit down, sit
down. Have something to smoke. Tell us about yourself, and how"--the
deep-set eyes twinkling--"you like the work?"
Conniston saw that Argyl had seated herself and dropped into one of
the big chairs himself, his whole body enjoying the luxury of it. At
his elbow was a little table with cigars and cigarettes. Mr. Crawford
laughed when he saw that Conniston, having glanced at the table, drew
out his own cheap muslin bag of tobacco and rough, brown papers.
"I'm getting used to them," Greek apologized. "And do you know that
I'm beginning to like to roll my own 'cigareet'?"
Argyl clapped her hands, laughing with her father.
"I told you so, daddy!" she cried, merrily. "Didn't I say that Mr.
Conniston was born to be a good cow-puncher!"
"And I'm half persuaded that you are right, Argyl," came from behind
the dense cloud of cigar-smoke. "But you haven't told us how you like
the work, Conniston."
"If you had asked me a week ago I should have had to ask to be excused
from trying to tell you in the presence of ladies.
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