She knew she fled, incontinently fled. And her
first act on arrival home had been to rid herself of the almost mannish
suit in which she worked, so that Jeff, when he made his appearance,
might find her the woman she really was.
The voices of the men on the veranda reached Nan within the parlor.
She did not want to listen. She told herself so. Besides, she had a
perfect right to remain where she was. And, anyway, Bud had no secrets
from her. So she placed herself beyond the chance of observation, and
remained quiet lest she should lose a word of what the voices were
saying.
Bud was talking. His tone and words rumbled pleasantly upon the
evening air. His talk was of the round-up. It was the talk of a man
wedded to the life of the western plains. It was the talk of a man who
is conscious of success achieved in spite of great difficulties and
trials. There was a deep note of satisfaction in all he said.
Jeff's voice sounded at intervals. A lighter note. His answers were
precise, as was his way. But they lacked the enthusiasm of the other.
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