One more astute than Mrs. Hardy might have had a glimmer of
the absurdity which had provoked Dave's untimely mirth, but she was a
woman who took herself with much seriousness. If Conward guessed
anything he concealed his intuition behind a mask of polite attention.
Mrs. Hardy addressed a severe gaze at Elden. "You should keep your
wits better in hand, young man. When you find them rambling it might
be well to--ah--_lasso_ them. Ha, ha, Mr. Conward. That's the word,
is it not? _Lasso_ them." This unexpected witticism on Mrs. Hardy's
part had the fortunate effect of restoring that lady's good humour, and
Elden found an easy way out of the situation by joining in the general
laughter.
"I fear a thought would be a somewhat elusive thing to get a rope on,"
he ventured.
"But if it could be done, Dave would do it," Irene interjected. "You
remember----"
"Dave?" said Mrs. Hardy, sharply. "You mean Mr. Elden."
The colour rose in the young woman's cheeks, but she stood by her guns.
"He was Dave in those days," she said. "It would be impossible to
think of a _mister_ galloping about over the foothills, swinging his
lariat, or smashing bottles with his six-shooter. Mister fits in with
the conventions; with tailors and perfume and evening dress, but it
doesn't seem to have any place in the foothills."
"You're right," Conward agreed. "Mister has no place on horseback. If
you were to go out on the ranges and begin mistering the cow-punchers,
like as not they'd lead you into camp at a rope-end.
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