And then the outer
door framed banker Engle's daughter, a mere girl in her middle teens,
fair-haired, fair-skinned, fluffy-skirted, her eyes bright with
expectation, her two hands held out offering themselves in doubled
greetings. But, having seen the unexpected guest at the sheriff's
side, the bright-haired girl paused for a brief moment of uncertainty
upon the threshold, her hands falling to her sides.
"Hello, Florrie," Norton was saying quietly. "I have brought a caller
for your mother. Miss Engle, Miss Page."
"How do you do, Miss Page?" Florrie replied, regaining her poise and
giving one of her hands to each of the callers, the abandon of her
first appearance gone in a flash to be replaced by a vague hint of
stiffness. "Mama will be so glad to see you. Do come in."
She turned and led the way down the wide, deep hall and into the
living-room, a chamber which boldly defied one to remember that he was
still upon the rim of the desert. In one swift glance the newcomer to
San Juan was offered a picture in which the tall, carelessly clad form
of the sheriff became incongruous; she wondered that he remained at his
ease as he so obviously did. Yonder was a grand piano, a silver chased
vase upon a wall bracket over it holding three long-stemmed, red roses;
a heavy, massive-topped table strewn comfortably and invitingly with
books and magazines; an exquisite rug and one painting upon the far
wall, an original seascape suggestive of Waugh at his best; excellent
leather-upholstered chairs luxuriously inviting, and at once homelike
and rich.
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