He, for his part, was trying to grasp the series of unexpected reactions that had so wrecked their tete-a-tete. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. "I want you for the job I spoke of a short time ago, Nab," he said.
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