it necessary, for decorum and comfort, to edge along a little way himself, putting a space of half a yard between himself and the hostess of the Cottonwood Hotel. It was not quite far enough to give him a view beyond her; he shifted a yard more, pretending that his shoestring needed tightening, turning up his eyes in sly measurement of the girl's obvious good points as he leaned.
Banjo was confirmed in his first opinion by this adroit exploration. She was not only a peach, but any kind and all kinds of fruit which was lucious, colorful, sweet. To look at her was refreshment; to be near her a placid joy.
Banjo did not hold it against her that she stood at least a hand's breadth taller than himself, being accustomed by this time to the handicap that nature had placed upon him, thankful for it sometimes when there was fighting and working, and other hardships incidental to the estate of a proper man, to be met. He glowed with admiration as he noted her youthful freshness and the refinement of her face, like a costly fiddle beside a cheap one, he thought, compared to the wind-rough faces of those railroad and cow-ranch girls.
It would take black haws on the bush after the first frost to match her hair. A little hollow along the jaw, maybe; just a trifle too hollow there. But she would fill out with proper feeding. Her hands were strong and flexible, appealing hands to a musician. Music spoke out of them; Banjo could feel it as he
