“Maybe I could,” hazarded Conover.
“You’d break his neck and his heart at the same time. Leave him to me. Nothing but kindness does any good where he is concerned.”
“Ever try a bale-stick?” suggested Caleb.
“That will do!” she reproved. “Now, I want to hear more about Steeloid. Poor Mr. Blacarda! It’s pretty hagorous for him, isn’t it?”
“If ‘hagorous’ means he’s got it in the neck, it is.”
“‘Hagorous’” explained Desirée, loftily, “means anything horrid. I know, because I made it up. It’s such a comfort to make up words. Because then, you see, you can give them meanings as you go along. It saves a lot of bother. Did you ever try it?”
“No,” said Conover, apologetically. “I’m afraid I never did. Maybe I could, though, if it’d make a hit with you. But you were talkin’ about Blacarda. You ain’t wastin’ sympathy on him, are you?”
“I’m sorry for anyone that gets the worst of it. But—”
“But no sorrier for Blacarda than you would be for anybody else?”
“Of course not. Why?”