s, technically, like you might say; a lot of nice, sweet girls
along but dressed to be mere jolly young roughnecks, and just as
interesting to the said stranger as the regular boys that will be
present--hardly more so. And now, as for poor little meek you--you will
look wild and Western, understand me, but feminine; exactly like the
coloured cigarette picture that says under it "Rocky Mountain Cow Girl."
You will be in your pretty tan skirt--be sure to have it pressed--and a
blue-striped sport bloose that I just saw in the La Mode window, and
you'll get some other rough Western stuff there, too: a blue silk
neckerchief and a natty little cow-girl sombrero--the La Mode is showing
a good one called the La Parisienne for four fifty-eight--and the
daintiest pair of tan kid gauntlets you can find, and don't forget a
pair of tan silk stockings--'

"'They won't show in my riding boots,' says Hetty, looking as if she was
coming to life a little.

"'Tush for the great, coarse, commonsense riding boots,' I says firmly;
'you will wear precisely that neat little pair of almost new tan pumps
with the yellow bows that you're standing in now. Do you get me?'

"'But that would be too dainty and absurd,' says Hetty.

"'Exactly!' I says, shutting my mouth hard.

"'Why, I almost believe I do get you,' says she, looking religiously up
into the future like that lady saint playing the organ in the picture.

"'Another thing,' I says: 'You are deathly afraid of a horse and was
hardly ever on one but once when you were a teeny girl, but you do love
the open life, so you just nerved yourself up to come.'

"'I believe I see more clearly than ever,' says Hetty. She grew up on a
ranch, knows more about a horse than the horse himself does, and would
be a top rider most places, with the cheap help we get nowadays that can
hardly set a saddle.

"'Also from time to time,' I goes on, 'you want to ask this Mr. D.
little, timid, silly questions that will just tickle him to death and
make him feel superior. Ask him to tell you which legs of a horse the
chaps go on, and other things like that; ask him if the sash that holds
the horrid old saddle on isn't so tight it's hurting your horse. After
the lunch is et, go over to the horse all alone and stroke his nose and
call him a dear and be found by the gent when he follows you over trying
to feed the noble animal a hard-boiled egg and a couple of pickles or
something. Take my word for it, he'll be over