“There,” said Scattergood, “now you and me kin talk.  We’ll go up to your room, where nobody kin disturb us.”  The conventions nor the tongue of gossip was non-existent to Scattergood Baines, and Yvette, not reared in a school where trust in men is easily learned, was shrewd enough to recognize Scattergood’s purpose and her own safety.

“I s’pose you’re the local Mr. Fix-it,” she said, with sarcasm.

“I s’pose,” said Scattergood, “that I’ve knowed Homer sence he was knee high to a mouse’s kitten, and I don’t know nothin’ about you a-tall.  I gather you’re calc’latin’ on marryin’ Homer....  Mebby you be and mebby you hain’t....  Depends.  Come along.”

He led the way to the hotel and allowed Yvette to precede him up the stairs to her room, which she unlocked and stood aside for him to enter.  He looked about him in the sharp-eyed way characteristic of him, not omitting to include in his survey the toilet articles on the dresser.

“Hain’t you perty enough without them?” he asked, indicating the lip stick and rice powder.  “Us folks hain’t used to ’em, much....  Wunst we give a home-talent play here, and there come a feller from Boston to help out.  Mis’ Blossom was into it, and he come around to paint her up.  She jest give him one look, and says, says she, ’I hain’t never painted my face yit, and I don’t calc’late to start in now.’ ...  I got to admit she looked kind of pale and peeked amongst the rest, but she stuck to her principles.”

Yvette stared at Scattergood, nonplused for the first time.  What did he mean?  How was she to take him?  His face was serene and there was no glint of humor in his eye....  Yet, somehow, she gathered the idea he was chuckling inwardly and that there resided in him a broad and tender toleration for the little antics and makeshifts of mankind.  Possibly he was holding Mrs. Blossom up to her as a model of rectitude; perhaps he was asking her to laugh with him at a foible of one of his own people.  She wished she knew which.

“Calc’late on marryin’ Homer?” he asked.

“I—­”

“Yes or no—­quick.”

“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin bravely.

“Um!...  Knowed him four days, hain’t you?  Think it’s long enough?  Plenty of time to figger it all out?”

She sat down on the bed, drooping wearily.  “I’m tired,” she said, “awful tired.  I can’t stand this life any longer.  I’ve got to have a place to rest.”

“Hain’t goin’ to have Homer used for no sanitorium,” said Scattergood.

“I like him,” said Yvette.

“’Tain’t enough.  Up this way folks mostly loves when they git married—­or owns adjoinin’ timber.”

Again she was at a loss.  What did he mean?  If he would only smile!

“I—­I’ve got a feeling I could trust him,” she said, “and he’d be good to me.”

“He would,” said Scattergood.  “I hain’t worritin’ about his dealin’ with you; it’s your dealin’ with him I’m questionin’ into.”