"They are beautiful," she said. "I never dreamed I'd ever ride
behind horses like them. I'm afraid I'll wake up now and find
it's a dream. You know, I dream horses all the time. I'd give
anything to own one some time."

"It's funny, ain't it?" Billy answered. "I like horses that way.
The boss says I'm a wooz at horses. An' I know he's a dub. He
don't know the first thing. An' yet he owns two hundred big heavy
draughts besides this light drivin' pair, an' I don't own one."

"Yet God makes the horses," Saxon said.

"It's a sure thing the boss don't. Then how does he have so
many?--two hundred of 'em, I'm tellin' you. He thinks he likes
horses. Honest to God, Saxon, he don't like all his horses as
much as I like the last hair on the last tail of the scrubbiest
of the bunch. Yet they're his. Wouldn't it jar you?"

"Wouldn't it?" Saxon laughed appreciatively. "I just love fancy
shirtwaists, an' I spent my life ironing some of the
beautifullest I've ever seen. It's funny, an' it isn't fair."

Billy gritted his teeth in another of his rages.

"An' the way some of them women gets their shirtwaists. It makes
me sick, thinkin' of you ironin' 'em. You know what I mean,
Saxon. They ain't no use wastin' words over it. You know. I know.
Everybody knows. An' it's a hell of a world if men an' women
sometimes can't talk to each other about such things." His manner
was almost apologetic yet it was defiantly and assertively right.