Bowers had shaken from his departing feet.
The editor did not look up until he had finished revising a difficult
paragraph. By that time Mr. Hamlin had comfortably settled himself on
a cane sofa, and, possibly out of deference to his surroundings, had
subdued his song to a peculiarly low, soft, and heartbreaking whistle as
he unfolded a newspaper. Clean and faultless in his appearance, he had
the rare gift of being able to get up at two in the afternoon with
much of the dewy freshness and all of the moral superiority of an early
riser.
"You ought to have been here just now, Jack," said the editor.
"Not a row, old man, eh?" inquired Jack, with a faint accession of
interest.
"No," said the editor, smiling. Then he related the incidents of the
previous interview, with a certain humorous exaggeration which was part
of his nature. But Jack did not smile.
"You ought to have booted him out of the ranch on sight," he said. "What
right had he to come here prying into a lady's affairs?--at least a lady
as far as HE knows.
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