I think he slept badly last
night on your account."
Wistfulness was in Dade's eyes when he looked at her; as though he
wanted to ask if she also were relieved at seeing him. But there was
the man behind the lattice where the vines were thickest; the man who
was young and whom she had found a pleasant companion. Also there was
Jack, who was staring with perfect frankness, his eyes a full
shade darker as he looked at her. And there was the peon scampering
barefooted across from one of the huts to take their horses. Dade
therefore confined himself to conventional phrases.
"Senorita, let me present to you my friend, Jack Allen," he said.
"Jack, this is the Senorita Teresa Picardo."
His nostrils widened again when he looked casually at Jack; for Jack's
sombrero was swept down to his knees in salute--though it was not
that; it was the look in his face that sent Dade's glance seeking
Teresita's eyes for answer.
But Teresita only showed him how effectively black lashes contrast
with the faint flush of cheeks just hinting at dimples, and he got no
answer there.
She made another little courtesy, lifting her lashes unexpectedly
for a swift glance at Jack, as he dismounted hastily and went up two
steps, his hand outstretched to her.
"We Americanos like to shake hands upon a new friendship," he said
boldly.
The senorita laughed a little, changed her embroidery hoop from her
right hand to her left, laid her fingers in his palm, blushed when his
hand closed upon them eagerly, and laughed again when her gold thimble
slipped and rolled tinkling down the steps.
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