So Wint sat down, where the moonlight struck through the vines about the porch and mottled the floor with silver. Agnes came out with something indescribably flimsy about her fair head; and Wint laughed and said: “I never could make out why girls think a thing like that keeps them warm.”
“Oh, but it does,” she insisted. “You’ve no idea how much warmth there is in it.”
He shook his head, laughing at her. “That wouldn’t keep a butterfly warm on the Sahara Desert.”
She protested: “Now you just see....” And she moved lightly around behind him and wrapped the film of silken stuff about his head. “There,” she said, and looked at him, and laughed gayly. “You’re the funniest-looking thing.”
Wint unwound the scarf gingerly. “It feels like cobwebs,” he said. “I don’t see how you can wear it. Sticky stuff.”
“Men are always afraid of things like cobwebs. Always afraid of little things.”
Wint chuckled. “What’s this? New philosophy of life?”
“Can’t I say anything serious?”
“Why, sure. I don’t know but what you’re right, too.”
He had taken one of the chairs. She sat down in the hammock. “Come sit here with me,” she invited. “That chair’s not comfortable.”