Florian looked up at her contritely, and smiled his winning smile. "I'm
sorry. I didn't mean--I--I never want to see beans again as long as I
live!"
He was down at the store early, early next morning. His practised eye
swept the department for possible slackness, for changes, for needed
adjustments. The two Maine ex-guides and the chap who knew the Rockies
like the palm of his hand welcomed him with Judas-like slaps on the
shoulder. "Like it?" they asked him. And, "God's country--the West," he
answered, mechanically. After that he ignored them. At nine he ran down
the two flights of stairs to the third floor. He did not wait for the
elevator.
For a moment he could not find her and his heart sank. She might be away
on a vacation. Then he spied her in a corner half-hidden by a rack of
covert coats. She was hanging them up. The floor was empty of customers
thus early. He strode over to her. She turned. Into her eyes there
leaped a look which she quickly veiled as had been taught her by a
thousand thousand female ancestors.
"I got your postals," she said.
Florian said nothing.
"My, you're brown!"
Florian said nothing.
"Did you--have a good time?"
Florian said nothing.
"What--what----" Her hand went to her throat, where his eyes were
fastened.
Then Florian spoke. "How white your throat is!" he said. "How white your
throat is!"
Myra stepped out, then, from among the covert coats on the rack. Her
head was lifted high on the creamy column that supported it. She had
her pride, had Myra.
"It's no whiter than it was a month ago, that I can see."
"I know it." His tone was humble, with a little pleading note in it. "I
know a lot of things that I didn't know a month ago, Myra."