He respected her for some minutes, until in the midst of a culinary triumph a big tear dropped and spluttered in the saucepan.

But he forgave the irrelevancy by taking no notice of it, and by doing full justice to that particular dish.
Nevertheless, he asked several questions based upon these recently discovered qualities.

It appeared that in the old days of her wanderings with the circus troupe she had often been forced to undertake this nomadic housekeeping.

But she "despised it," had never done it since, and always had refused to do it for "him"-- the personal pronoun referring, as Low understood, to her lover, Curson.

Not caring to revive these memories further, Low briefly concluded: "I don't know what you were, or what you may be, but from what I see of you you've got all the sabe of a frontierman's wife." She stopped and looked at him, and then with an impulse of imprudence that only half concealed a more serious vanity, asked, "Do you think I might have made a good squaw ?" "I don't know," he replied quietly.