“Then I wish you’d do something for me,” I told him.
“What?”
“Break that woman’s heart,” I announced, with a backward nod of my head toward Casa Grande.
“I’d much rather break yours,” he coolly contended. “Or I’d prefer knowing I had the power of doing it.”
I shook my head. “It can’t be done, Peter. And it can’t even be pretended. Imagine the mother of twins trying to flirt with a man even as nice as you are! It would be as bad as an elephant trying to be kittenish and about as absurd as one of your dinosauria getting up and trying to do a two-step. And I’m getting old and prosy, Peter, and if I pretend to be skittish now and then it’s only to mask the fact that I’m on the shelf, that I’ve eaten my pie and that before long I’ll be dyeing my hair every other Sunday, the same as Struthers, and——”
“Rot!” interrupted Peter. “All rot!”
“Why rot?” I demanded.
“Because to me you’re the embodiment of undying youth,” asserted the troubadour beside me. It was untrue, and it was improper, but for a moment or two at least my hungry heart closed about that speech the same as a child’s hand closes about a chocolate-drop. Women are made that way. But I had to keep to the trail.
“Supposing we get back to earth,” I suggested.
“What’s the matter with the way we were heading?” countered the quiet-eyed Peter.