“He’s a clown,” he said.
She nodded. “He’s a fine dog, Wint.”
“He’s a dog of sense. He thinks well of you.” He laughed. “I’ll give him to you some day.”
She looked up at him seriously, understanding in her eyes. “I hope so, Wint,” she said.
There was something besides understanding in her eyes, something faintly accusing; and he flushed and said hotly: “Don’t look at me like that. Please. I’m—I mean to—make it come true.”
“I hope so, Wint,” she said again.
They spoke no more for a time. Presently she stopped at the bakery and they went in together. The sweet odor of hot bread and sugar and spice clouded about them as he opened the door. A round little woman greeted them.
“Is your cream bread all gone, Mrs. Mueller?” Joan asked.
“No. Not yet. How many loaves?”
“Two, please.”