“Oh, it’s all right.”
She stamped her foot. “I should think you’d do what I say when you come to see me.”
“Matter of fact, you know, I came to see your father.”
“Well, you’re staying to see me. If you don’t sit in the hammock, I’m going in the house and leave you.”
Wint held up his hands in mock consternation. “Heaven forbid.” He sat down beside her, as uncomfortable as a man must always be in a hammock; and she leaned away from him, half reclining, enjoying his discomfort. He could see her laughing at him in the moonlight. She pointed one forefinger at him, stroked it with the other as one strops a razor.
“’Fraid to sit in the hammock with a girl,” she taunted.
She was very pretty and provoking in the silver light; and Wint understood that he could kiss her if he chose. He had kissed Agnes before this. “Wink” and “Post Office” and kindred games were popular when he and Agnes were in high school together. But—he had no notion of kissing Agnes, moonlight or no moonlight. He had come to see Amos. Amos’s daughter was another matter.
“When is Amos coming home?” he asked. “Has he called up? Maybe I’d better walk uptown.”
“He called and said he was starting,” she assured him. “You stay right here. He’ll be here, unless he gets to talking some of your old politics. I suppose that’s what you came to see him for.”
“Oh, I just happened down this way....”