“For what?”

Doris was gazing at him with a serene directness that made him feel that his clothing was several sizes too large for him.  He realized that generalities would hardly serve his turn just then.

“I was settin’ here feelin’ sore at the whole doggone outfit,” he explained.  “Sore at you—­and everybody.”

“Well?” said Doris unsmilingly.

“I’m askin’ you to forgit that I was sore at you.”  Pete was not ordinarily of an apologetic turn, and he felt that he pretty thoroughly squared himself.

“It really doesn’t matter,” said Doris, as she placed his tray on the table and turned to go.

“I reckon you’re right.”  And his dark eyes grew moody again.

“There’s a man in the reception-room waiting to see you,” said Doris.  “I told him you were having your dinner.”

“Another one, eh?  Oh, I was forgittin’.  I got a letter from Jim Bailey”—­Pete fumbled in his shirt—­“and I thought mebby—­”

“I hope it’s good news.”

“It sure is!  Would you mind readin’ it—­to yourself—­sometime?”

“I—­think I’d rather not,” said Doris hesitatingly.

Pete’s face showed so plainly that he was hurt that Doris regretted her refusal to read the letter.  To make matters worse—­for himself—­Pete asked that exceedingly irritating and youthful question, “Why?” which elicits that distinctly unsatisfactory feminine answer, “Because.”  That lively team “Why” and “Because” have run away with more chariots of romance, upset more matrimonial bandwagons, and spilled more beans than all the other questions and answers men and women have uttered since that immemorial hour when Adam made the mistake of asking Eve why she insisted upon his eating an apple right after breakfast.

Doris was not indifferent to his request that she read the letter, but she was unwilling to let Pete know it, and a little fearful that he might interpret her interest for just what it was—­the evidence of a greater solicitude for his welfare than she cared to have him know.

Pete, like most lusty sons of saddle-leather, shied at even the shadow of sentiment—­in this instance shying at his own shadow.  He rode wide of the issue, turning from the pleasant vista of who knows what imaginings, to face the imperative challenge of immediate necessity, which was, first, to eat something, and then to meet the man who waited for him downstairs who, Pete surmised, was the sheriff of Sanborn County.

“If you don’t mind tellin’ him I’ll come down as soon as I eat,” said Pete as he pulled up a chair.

Doris nodded and turned to leave.  Pete glanced up.  She had not gone.  “Your letter,”—­and Doris proffered the letter which he had left on the cot.  Pete was about to take it when he glanced up at her.  She was smiling at him.  “You don’t know how funny you look when you frown and act—­like—­like a spoiled child,” she laughed.  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”