She was going now to call upon the Engles. She had told him that she
had a letter to Mrs. Engle from a common friend in Richmond.
"I don't want to appear to be riding too hard on your trail," he smiled
at her. "But I was planning dropping in on the Engles myself this
evening. They're friends of mine, you know."
She laughed, and as they left the hotel, propounded a riddle for him to
answer: Should Mr. Norton introduce her to Mrs. Engle so that she might
present her letter, or, after the letter was presented, should Mrs.
Engle introduce her to Mr. Norton?
It did not suggest itself to her until they had passed from the street,
through the cottonwoods and into the splendid living-room of the Engle
home, that her escort was not dressed as she had imagined all civilized
mankind dressed for a call. Walking through the primitive town his
boots and soft shirt and travel-soiled hat had been in too perfect
keeping with the environment for her to be more than pleasurably
conscious of them.
At the Engles', however, his garb struck her for a moment of the first
shock of contrast, as almost grotesquely out of place.
At the broad front door Norton had rapped. The desultory striking of a
piano's keys ceased abruptly, a girl's voice crying eagerly: "It's
Roddy!" hinted at the identity of the listless player, a door flung
open flooded the broad entrance hall with light.
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