“To-morrow will be Sunday; I’ll stop work at noon and come,” he declared.

She pointed a forefinger at him and wiggled her thumb, in imitation of a pistol.

“Hold up your right hand and swear it,” she commanded, “or I’ll shoot.”  She continued to menace Bryant while he obeyed.  “There, now you’re safe.  And bring that hungry boy and we’ll feed you both; this is a dinner invitation, understand.  Now, tell me about everything.”

“Everything?”

“All you’re doing with that three-legged telescope and these stakes.”

She smoothed her dress and manifested an expectant interest.  The impression Bryant had gained at the first accidental meeting at Perro Creek, of her good looks, of her vitality and irrepressible spirits, was heightened.  As he recollected his feeling of pique at her visit with Charlie Menocal to the ruined pueblo, he realized that he had indulged in a bit of senseless, unwarranted umbrage; and now had, in consequence, a quick desire to make amends.  It was as if he must reestablish himself in her good opinion and his own.

Their talk ran on from topic to topic.  The gaiety of her comments pleased him; the youthfulness of her was irresistible; and he found himself observing the changing curves of her throat and cheek as she turned her head a little aside or raised her chin; found himself watching for certain unconscious attitudes; awaiting the lift of her eyes to his, harkening for particular tones of her voice.  And Bryant, who, though he knew it not, was also athirst for companionship, more and more yielded to her subtle feminine attraction.  “She’s even prettier than I supposed,” he thought.  Her lips, her nose, her eyes of deep gray with their wonderfully long lashes—­each had a particular charm of its own.  He admired the grace of her figure.  He felt an odd surprise at her apparent soft and pliant strength, as at a discovery.  His mind thrilled with delight at her laughter.

“Look where the sun is!” she exclaimed, all at once.  “Straight over our heads—­noon.  Your David will be wondering where you are, while Imogene will imagine I’m lost.  Let me pick a flower to stick in the ribbon of your hat and then I’ll go.”

“Your fingers will suffer; I’ll get some,” Lee said, quickly.  From a spreading bed of prickly-pear he plucked a dozen of the cactus blossoms, ranging in colour from a delicate lemon to a deep orange.  He turned to her.

“First I’ll decorate you,” he said.  “Please assume an angelic expression and gaze straight at the camera.”

She tilted her chin upward and thrust her arms downward with all five fingers of each hand stretched apart.  But immediately she began to laugh.  Lee gave her a reproving tap on the uplifted chin and then fastened the flowers in her hat-band.  A thrill like fire ran through his body at the proximity of that soft, round chin, those red lips, her eyes gleaming with merriment.

“Now, beauty!” he said, stepping back.