They were mostly commonplace young men, jogging past the house on horseback, or loitering down by the corrals.

They had offered absolutely no interest or "color" to the place, and the owner's son, Bob Warfield, had driven her over to the Quirt in a Ford and had seemed exactly like any other big, good-looking young man who thought well of himself.

Lorraine was not susceptible to mere good looks, three years with the "movies" having disillusioned her quite thoroughly.

Too many young men of Bob Warfield's general type had attempted to make love to her--lightly and not too well--for Lorraine to be greatly impressed.
She yawned, looked at her watch again, found that she had spent exactly six minutes in meditating upon her immediate surroundings, and fell to wondering why it was that the real West was so terribly commonplace.
Why, yesterday she had been brought to such a pass of sheer loneliness that she had actually been driven to reading an old horse-doctor book! She had learned the symptoms of epizooetic--whatever that was--and poll-evil and stringhalt, and had gone from that to making a shopping tour through a Montgomery Ward catalogue.

There was nothing else in the house to read, except a half dozen old copies of the _Boise News_.
There was nothing to do, nothing to see, no one to talk to.