There was Art Osgood, standing with his back toward her and with one palm spread upon his hip in the attitude she knew so well.

If only he would turn! Should she run down the stairs and go over there and march him across the line at the muzzle of her revolver?
The idea repelled her, now that she had actually come to the point of action.
Jean, now that the crisis had arrived, used her woman's wile, rather than the harsher but perhaps less effective weapons of a man.
"Oh, Art!" she called, just exactly as she would have called to him on the range, in Montana "Hello, Art!" Art Osgood wheeled and sent a startled, seeking glance up at the veranda; saw her and knew who it was that had called him, and lifted his hat in the gesture that she knew so well.

Jean's fingers were close to her gun, though she was not conscious of it, or of the strained, tense muscles that waited the next move.
Art, contrary to her expectations, did the most natural thing in the world.

He grinned and came hurrying toward her with the long, eager steps of one who goes to greet a friend after an absence that makes of that meeting an event.

Jean watched him cross the street.