He rejoiced in the delightful intimacy the
circumstances made necessary. To hear snatches of joyous song and
gay laughter even from a distance, to watch her as she came in
and out on her daily tasks, to contest her opinions of books and
life and see how eagerly she defended them; he wondered himself
at the strength of the appeal these simple things made to him.
Already he was dreading the day when he must mount his horse and
ride back into the turbulent life from which she had for a time,
snatched him.
"I'll hate to go back to sheepherding," he told her one day at
lunch, looking at her across a snow-white tablecloth upon which
were a service of shining silver, fragile china teacups and
plates stamped Limoges.
He was at the moment buttering a delicious French roll and she
was daintily pouring tea from an old family heirloom. The
contrast between this and the dust and the grease of a midday
meal at the end of a "chuck wagon" lent accent to his smiling
lamentation.
"A lot of sheepherding you do," she derided.
"A shepherd has to look after his sheep, y'u know."
"You herd sheep just about as much as I punch cows."
"I have to herd my herders, anyhow, and that keeps me on the
move.
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