Rod uttered another sentence softly; asked a question. Andy did not seem to hear.
"Damn it, never mind Isabel!" he broke out in exasperation. "Any time you want her you can have her, so for God's sake come out of that trance and listen to what I'm saying."
Andy glared at him, not so much in anger at the outburst as in sheer amazement, tinged with hopeful eagerness.
"What did you say?"
Rod began where he left off.
"I heard that," Andy told him bluntly. "I know it anyway without telling. I asked what you said about her."
"Oh, hell!" Rod threw up his hands. Then he got hold of himself. Something in Andy's eyes—a curious illuminating recollection of himself sitting in the stern of his canoe long ago, staring back through a moonlit night at Oliver Thorn's house with a strange fever in his blood, a dull ache in his heart.
"Lord, Andy," he said with rough kindness. "Does that knock you all in a heap? You're not generally so slow." He paused an instant, then repeated Isabel's own words. "If you weren't stupid you'd see that all you have to do is to open your hands and she'll fall into 'em like a ripe plum."
Andy matched glances with him for ten silent seconds. Rod smiled wearily. His impatience had burned out. Then a flush dyed Andy's fair, freckled skin.
"Shoot," he said presently. "I'm listening."