The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. Somehow or other his reputation as a hardened and unassailable bachelor had won for him during the last few years a comparative immunity from attentions on the part of those women with whom he had been brought into contact. ‘You are outrageous. It was Blueskin. I throw up work—everything! I just teach in one school, one good school, three days a week. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. ” “My dear young lady,” the official said irritably, “this man would not have your name and address in his pocket without an object. Have you been away from Morningside Park?” “I’m not interrupting you?” “You are. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. ” She looked up at him quickly. They had not to tarry long.
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