"I'm Ellen," she said, "and I know you're Steve. Cousin Ludtvik has
been telling me about you."
I shook hands, surprized at the thrill the mere touch of her hand gave
me.
She was enthusiastic about the ranch. She was enthusiastic about
everything. Seldom have I seen anyone who had more vigor and vim, more
enjoyment of everything done. She fairly scintillated with mirth and
gayety.
Ludtvik gave her the best horse on the place, and we rode much about
the ranch and over the veldt.
The blacks interested her much. They were afraid of her, not being used
to white women. She would have been off her horse and playing with the
pickaninnies if I had let her. She couldn't understand why she should
treat the black people as dust beneath her feet. We had long arguments
about it. I could not convince her, so I told her bluntly that she
didn't know anything about it and she must do as I told her.
She pouted her pretty lips and called me a tyrant, and then was off
over the veldt like an antelope, laughing at me over her shoulder, her
hair blowing free in the breeze.
Tyrant! I was her slave from the first. Somehow the idea of becoming a
lover never entered my mind. It was not the fact that she was several
years older than I, or that she had a sweetheart (several of them,
I think) back in New York. Simply, I worshiped her; her presence
intoxicated me, and I could think of no more enjoyable existence than
serving her as a devoted slave.