Nash stood in the shadow of the doorway watching that lean, handsome
face with the suggestion of mockery in the eyes and the trace of
sternness around the thin lips. Not a formidable figure by any means,
but since his experiences of the past few days, Nash was grown extremely
thoughtful.
What he finally thought he caught in this most unusual tenderfoot was a
certain alertness of a more or less hair-trigger variety. Even now as he
sat at ease at the table, one elbow resting lightly upon it, apparently
enwrapped in the converse of Sally Fortune, Nash had a consciousness
that the other might be on his feet and in the most distant part of the
room within a second.
What he noted in the second instant of his observation was that Sally
was not at all loath to waste her time on the stranger. She was eating
with a truly formidable conventionality of manner, and a certain grace
with which she raised the ponderous coffee cup, made of crockery
guaranteed to resist all falls, struck awe through the heart of the
cowpuncher. She was bent on another conquest, beyond all doubt, and that
she would not make it never entered the thoughts of Nash.
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