“Words such as those are honey to my ears,” he said as he went on with his work. And I saw it was necessary to yank him down to earth again.
“I’ve a broken-down windmill over on my ranch,” I told him. “And if you’re what you say you are, you ought to be able to put it in running order for me.”
“Then you’ve a ranch?” he observed, stopping in his work.
“A ranch and a husband and three children,” I told him with the well-paraded air of a tabby-cat who’s dragged her last mouse into the drawing-room. But my announcement didn’t produce the effect I’d counted on. All I could see on the face of the windmill man was a sort of mild perplexity.
“That only deepens the mystery,” he observed, apparently as much to himself as to me.
“What mystery?” I asked.
“You!” he retorted.
“What’s wrong with me?” I demanded.
“You’re so absurdly alive and audacious and sensitive and youthful-hearted, dear madam! For the life of me I can’t quite fit you into the narrow little frame you mention.”
“Is it so narrow?” I inquired, wondering why I wasn’t much more indignant at him. But instead of answering that question, he asked me another.