'em up; it's takin' chances in this kind of a crowd. Or any kind of a crowd for that matter; you never can tell what kind of a play is comin' up when you're out in society. The coldest-blooded killin' I ever see was at a Sunday School picnic in Missouri."
But Ben was staring disconsolately at Nan, who, the center of attraction, was moving lightly and with animation through the figures of the quadrille in striking contrast to the solemn jog of the other dancers.
"How do you 'spose they gits 'em so white!" Joe Brindell made the inquiry of the world in general, but the cook, who had come up, answered.
"Hands, you talkin' about!" Nan was giving her finger-tips to Señor Pedro Apedaca at the time. "They soaks 'em in buttermilk and plasters 'em with bran. Them stylish ladies back east," explained the cook kindly—"sets more'n half a day with their faces and hands plastered with bran."
"Shoo," replied Joe Brindell, impressed and interested by the information—"ain't women the proud ones!"
"Has she noticed your shirt yet?"
