LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
harshly to criticise a work of art found in the home of your hostess.”
“Art! did you say, Katharine? Well, if that sort of art is rampant in the world just now, then I am mighty glad I’ve taken to the woods.”
Scorning further talk with this degenerate son of the hills, I turned to hear of Mary’s presents, listening eagerly, almost despairingly, as she ran over a most acceptable list. Thinking she had glided by a pair of slippers with suspicious haste, I asked what kind they were.
“Oh, just common ones.”
“Felt?”
“No, cloth.”
“Lined with fur?”
“No, lamb’s wool,” answered Bert, with a man’s blundering frankness.
Smothering my joy, I exclaimed sympathetically, “What a shame! Those are real old ladies’ slippers.”
“Too bad! too bad!” came hypocritically from Tom, poking the fire to conceal his delight.
“Yes, they gave me a shock,” admitted the sufferer. “Of course I knew those woollen monstrosities were lying in wait for me somewhere along the years, but I hardly expected them to bounce out just yet.”
“Come, Bert, walk up to the confessional!”
“Oh, I’ve nothing scary; old age has drawn no bead on me;” and he rattled off an inoffensive list.
98
