Her Prairie Knight
lids drooping over tired, smarting eyes, and disheveled, ash-filled hair topped by a man's gray felt hat. When she smiled her teeth shone dead white, like a negro's.
Dick regarded her critically, one foot on the wheel hub. "Where did you get hold of Keith Cameron's hat?" he inquired.
Beatrice snatched the hat from her head with childish petulance, and looked as if she were going to throw it viciously upon the ground. If her face had been clean Dick might have seen how the blood had rushed into her cheeks; as it was, she was safe behind a mask of soot. She placed the hat back upon her head, feeling, privately, a bit foolish.
"I supposed it was yours. I took it off the hall-tree." The dignity of her tone was superb, but, unfortunately, it did not match her appearance of rakish vagabondage.
Dick grinned through a deep layer of soot. "Well, it happens to be Keith's. He lost it in the wind the other day, and I found it and took it home. It's too bad you've worn his hat all night and didn't know it. You ought to see yourself! Your own mother won't know you, Trix."
"I can't look any worse than you do. A negro
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