For that reason she sat under her pink silk parasol and stared crossly under her eyebrows at the horse and man and the dust-grimed rattle-wheeled buggy that eventually emerged from the gray cloud.  The horse was a pudgy bay that set his feet stolidly down in the trail, and dragged his toes through it as though he delighted in kicking up all the dust he could.  By that trick he had puzzled Helen May a little, just at first, though he had not been able to simulate the passing of four horses.  The buggy was such as improvident farmers used to drive (before they bought Fords) near harvest time; scaly as to paint, warped and loose-spoked as to wheels, making more noise than progress along the country roads.

The man held the lines so loosely that they sagged under the wire-mended traces of sunburned leather.  He leaned a little forward, as though it was not worth while sitting straight on so hot a day.  He wore an old Panama hat that had cost him a good deal when it was new and had saved him a good deal since in straw hats which he had not been compelled to buy so long as this one held together.  It was pulled down in front so that it shaded his face—­a face lean and lined and dark, with thin lips that could be tender and humorous in certain moods.  His eyes were hazel, like the eyes of Starr, yet one never thought of them as being at all like Starr’s eyes.  They burned always with some inner fire of life; they laughed at life, and yet they did not seem to express mirth.  They seemed to say that life was a joke, a damnable joke on mankind; that they saw the joke and resented it even while they laughed at it.  For the rest, the man was more than fifty years old, but his hair was thick and black as a crow, and his eyebrows were inclined to bushiness, inclined also to slant upward.  A strong face; an unusual face, but a likeable one, it was.  And that is a fair description of Holman Sommers as Helen May first saw him.

He drove up to where she sat, and she tilted her pink silk parasol between them as though to keep the dust from settling thick upon her stained khaki skirt and her desert-dingy high-laced boots.  She was not interested in him, and her manner of expressing indifference could not have misled a horned toad.  She was too fresh from city life to have fallen into the habit of speaking to strangers easily and as a matter of country courtesy.  Even when the buggy stopped beside her, she did not show any eagerness to move the pink screen so that they might look at each other.

“How do you do?” said he, quite as though he were greeting her in her own home.  “You are Miss Stevenson, I feel sure.  I am Holman Sommers, at your service.  I am under the impression that I have with me a few articles which may be of some interest to you, Miss Stevenson.  I chanced to come upon the stage several miles farther down the road.  A wheel had given away, and there was every indication that the delay would prove serious, so when the driver mentioned the fact that he had mail and merchandise for you, I volunteered to act as his substitute and deliver them safely into your hands.  I hope therefore that the service will in some slight measure atone for my presumption in forcing my acquaintance upon you.”