"Am I to open it now or wait till Christmas?" he asked.
"Now," she said.
The paper contained a half-dozen small bottles of liquid courtplaster.
"Oh, I'm perfectly sane!" she laughed in her ringing tones as he turned a blank face to her.
"Tomorrow," she went on, "you are to smear yourself with that liquid courtplaster, from the soles of your feet to your knees. When one coat dries, apply another; and continue doing so until the supply is exhausted."
She threw back her head and her whole-souled laughter awoke the echoes.
"It's merely a crazy idea of mine," she explained. "I had a bottle of the stuff and was reading the printed directions that came with it. It seems to be good for anything, from gluing the straps of a décolletté ballgown to a woman's shoulders to the protection of stenographer's fingers and harvesters' hands at husking time. It's almost invisible when it has dried on one's skin; and I thought it might be of benefit to you in the fire dance."
"Say," he said, "you're in up to your neck, while I've barely got my feet wet. Come across!"
"Well, I'm not positive," she told him, "but I'm strongly of the opinion that you're going to dance the fire dance at the Fiesta de Santa Maria de Refugio tomorrow night."
"I? I dance the fire dance? Oh, no, Miss—you have the wrong number. I don't dance the fire dance at all."