Many a curious glance,
however, went to where Conniston sat. He was conscious of them even
when he did not see them, understood that a new appraisal of him was
being made swiftly, that his fellow-workers were carefully readjusting
their first conceptions and judgments of him.
When he had finished eating, Conniston went straight to his bunk. He
had no desire for conversation; he did want both rest and a chance to
think. He was straightening out his tumbled covers when Lonesome Pete
tapped him upon the shoulder.
"No hay for yours, Con," he grinned. "Not yet. Miss Argyl wants you to
come up to the house. Right away, she said, as soon as you'd et. She
said special she was in a hurry, an' you wasn't to waste time puttin'
on your glad rags."
Why did Argyl want him--to-night? He put his fingers to his cheek
where Brayley's fist had cut into the flesh. How could he go to her
like this? He was on the verge of telling Lonesome Pete that he could
not go, of framing some excuse, any excuse. But instead he closed his
lips without speaking, picked up his hat and went straight toward the
house.
She was waiting for him at the little summer-house upon the front
lawn. He saw the white of her lacy gown, the flash of her arms as he
came nearer, her outstretched hand as he came to her side. With his
hat caught under his right arm he put out his left hand to take hers.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173