"I ought to be pretty good at waiting by now," she told him, little
impressed. "And if you have anything up your sleeve besides the flabby
arm of a do-nothing, then it must be another bottle of whiskey! You
can't flim-flam me, dad, and you ought to know it."
She whisked out of the house, her face reddened with vexation, a sudden
moisture in her eyes. It took all of the fortitude she could summon
into her dauntless little bosom to maintain after days like this that
there was still a "come-back" left in her father.
In an hour made fragrant by the resinous odors of the upland pines and
the freshly liberated perfumes of the little white evening flowers
thick in the meadows, Terry on her favorite horse went flashing through
the long shadows of the late afternoon, riding as Terry always rode
when her breast was tumultuous and her temper rising.
The recently imported Japanese cook and houseboy peered out after her
from his kitchen window, his eyes actually losing their Oriental cast
and growing round; a trick, this, of Iki's whenever Terry came into his
view.
"Part bird," mused Iki, "part flower, big part wild devil-girl! Oof!
Nice to look at, but for wife Japonee girl more better. Think so."
Little by little as she rode, letting her horse out until she fairly
raced through the fields and into the woods beyond, the pitiful picture
of her father faded from her mind.
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