After supper Cutty brought in the old Amati.
"Play," he said, lighting his pipe.
So Hawksley played - played as he never had played before and perhaps as he would never play again. We reach zenith sometimes, but we never stay there. But he was not playing to Cutty.
Slate-blue eyes, two books with endless pages, the soul of this wife of his. He had come through. The miracle had been accomplished. Love.
Kitty smiled and smiled, the doors of her soul thrown wide to absorb this magic message. Love.
Cutty smoked on, with his eyes closed. He heard it, too. Love.
"Well," he said, sighing, "I see innovations out there in Montana.
The round-up will be different. The Pied Fiddler of Bar-K will stand in the corral and fiddle, and the bossies will come galloping in, two by two - and a few jackrabbits!" He laughed. "John, the Amati is yours conditionally. If after one year it is not reclaimed it becomes yours automatically. My wedding present. Remember, next winter, if God wills, you'll come and visit me."
"As if we could forget!" cried Kitty, embracing Cutty, who accepted the embrace stoically. "I'll be needing clothes, and Johnny will have to have his hair cut. Oh, Cutty, I'm so foolishly happy!"
"Time we started for the choo-choo. Time-tables have no souls. But, Lord, what a racket we've had!"
"Well, rather!" - from Hawksley.
"Bo, listen to me. Out there you must remember that 'bally' and 'ripping' and 'rather' are premeditated insults. Gee-whiz! but I'd like a look-see when you say to your rough-and-readies: 'Bally rotten weather. What?' They'll shoot you up."
More banter; which fooled none of the three, as each understood the other perfectly. The hour of separation was at hand, and they were fortifying their courage.