"What?"
"About how that glove happened to be on the floor."
"Why, partner, it's just a glove of my own."
"Didn't know you wore gloves with a leather as soft as that."
"No? Well, that story I was speaking about runs something like this—"
And she told him a gay narrative, throwing all her spirit into it, for she was an admirable mimic. He met her spirit more than half-way, laughing gaily; and so they reached the end of the story and the end of the meal at the same time. She cleared away the pans with a few motions and tossed them clattering into a corner. Neat housekeeping was not numbered among the many virtues of Jacqueline.
"Now," said Pierre, leaning back against the wall, "we'll hear about that glove."
"Damn the glove!" broke from her.
"Steady, pal!"
"Pierre, are you going to nag me about a little thing like that?"
"Why, Jack, you're red and white in patches. I'm interested."
He sat up.
"I'm more than interested. The story, Jack."
"Well, I suppose I have to tell you. I did a fool thing to-day. Took a little gallop down the trail, and on my way back I met a girl sitting in her saddle with her face in her hands, crying her heart out. Poor kid!. She'd come up in a hunting party and got separated from the rest.
