Carmen was pleased with praise, even a squirrel poisoner's praise. She could never have too much.
"You needn't wait for my birthday," she laughed. "I don't mean to have another for a good long time, Sim! You can have some of that wine to-night."
"Thank you, my lady. It's an anniversary, too," he mumbled, lowering his husky voice for the last words. But Carmen heard them. "You remember that!" she exclaimed, without stopping to think, or perhaps she would not have spoken.
"Oh, yes, my lady, I remember," he said. "There's reasons—several good reasons—why I shan't forget that as long as I live. You see, things was gettin' pretty bad for you, and so——"
"Don't let's talk of it, Sim!" she broke in sharply.
"No, my lady, we won't," he agreed. "I was only goin' to say, things bein' so bad made what happened a matter for rejoicin' and not sorrow, to those who wish you well. That's all—that's all, my lady."
"Thank you, Sim. I know you're fond of me—and grateful," Carmen said. "Things were bad. I don't pretend to grieve. I shouldn't even have worn mourning, if Madame Vestris, the great palmist in San Francisco, hadn't told me it would bring me ill luck not to. I'm glad the year's up. I hate black! This is a better anniversary than a silly old birthday, Sim!"
"Yes, and that reminds me, my lady," said Simeon, "that I've put together enough perfect skins of the squirrels I've killed without the dope to make the grand automobile coat I've been promisin' you so long. Got the last skin cured to-day, as it happened. Maybe, that'll bring you good luck!"
"Oh, I hope so!" she cried.
"Here's Nick—Mr. Hilliard," Harp announced, nodding his gray head in the direction of the oleander path, to which Carmen's back was turned as she stood.