He tried to tell her his notions on the subject the morning Clay praised his flapjacks.

She was among the rose-bushes, gloved and hatted, clipping American Beauties for the dining-room, a dainty but very self-reliant little personality.

“Miss Beatrice, I been thinkin’ about you and Clay,” he told her, leaning on his spade.

“What have you been thinking about us?” the girl asked, snipping off a big rose.

She liked Johnnie and listened often with amusement to his point of view.  It was so different from that of anybody else she had ever met.  Perhaps this was why she encouraged him to talk.  There may have been another reason.  The favorite theme of his conversation interested her.

“How you’re the best-lookin’ couple that a man would see anywheres.”

Into her clear cheeks the color flowed.  “If I thought nonsense like that I wouldn’t say it,” she said quietly.  “We’re not a couple.  He’s a man.  I’m a woman.  I like him and want to stay friends with him if you’ll let me.”

“Sure.  I know that, but—­” Johnnie groped helplessly to try to explain what he had meant.  “Clay he likes you a heap,” he finished inadequately.

The eyes of the girl began to dance.  There was no use taking offense at this simple soul.  After all he was not a servant, but a loyal follower whose brain was not quite up to the job of coping with the knotty problem of bringing two of his friends together in matrimony.  “Does he?  I’m sure I’m gratified,” she murmured, busy with her scissors among the roses.

“Yep.  I never knowed Clay to look at a girl before.  He sure thinks a heap of you.”

She gave a queer little bubbling laugh.  “You’re flattering me.”

“Honest, I ain’t.”  Johnnie whispered a secret across the rose-bushes.  “Say, if you work it right I believe you can get him.”

The girl sparkled.  Here was a new slant on matrimonial desirability.  Clearly the view of the little cow-puncher was that Clay had only to crook his fingers to summon any girl in the world that he desired.

“Do you think so—­with so many attractive girls in New York?” she pleaded.

“He don’t pay no ’tention to them.  Honest, I believe you can if you don’t spill the beans.”

“What would you advise me to do?” she dimpled.

“Sho!  I dunno.”  He shyly unburdened himself of the warning he had been leading up to.  “But I’d tie a can to that dude fellow that hangs around—­the Bromfield guy.  O’ course I know he ain’t one two three with you while Clay’s on earth, but I don’t reckon I’d take any chances, as the old sayin’ is.  No, ma’am, I’d ce’tainly lose him pronto.  Clay might get sore.  Better get shet of the dude.”