Why had she dropped it at his door? It was not a dangerous-looking
affair, to be sure, with its filmy lace edging and ridiculous
diminutiveness. As the question came to him, he was wondering how even
as dainty a nose as that possessed by Mary Standish could be much
comforted by it. But it was pretty. And, like Mary Standish, there was
something exquisitely quiet and perfect about it, like the simplicity of
her hair. He was not analyzing the matter. It was a thought that came to
him almost unconsciously, as he tossed the annoying bit of fabric on
the little table at the head of his berth. Undoubtedly the dropping of
it had been entirely unpremeditated and accidental. At least he told
himself so. And he also assured himself, with an involuntary shrug of
his shoulders, that any woman or girl had the right to pass his door if
she so desired, and that he was an idiot for thinking otherwise. The
argument was only slightly adequate. But Alan was not interested in
mysteries, especially when they had to do with woman--and such an
absurdly inconsequential thing as a handkerchief.
A second time he went to bed. He fell asleep thinking about Keok and
Nawadlook and the people of his range. From somewhere he had been given
the priceless heritage of dreaming pleasantly, and Keok was very real,
with her swift smile and mischievous face, and Nawadlook's big, soft
eyes were brighter than when he had gone away.
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