Billy laughed. "Who are you?" she asked, leaning toward him, one hand resting on the log between them, her steady eyes on his face.
The Watermelon again drew forth the card case, extracted a card and presented it to her with a flourish.
Holding it, she shook her head dubiously. "I mean are you a stock-broker? Are you on 'Change? Father has been nearly all his life, and he looks it. His eyes and—everything. Your eyes are different, quite different. I don't mean in color and size, for of course they would be, but in expression."
"How do you know?" asked the Watermelon. "You have only seen their expression when I have been looking at you, and a man doesn't look at a girl as if she were the tape from the ticker."
"I know," acknowledged Billy. "But I have known brokers all my life, and some have been young, and they—they aren't like you. I never sat on a log with one and talked about Heaven."
"Well, you see, I am a minister's son, and I had Heaven with every meal, as it were."
"Maybe that's it," agreed Billy.
A stick snapped behind them as though some one were approaching their retreat with stealthy tread under cover of the friendly bushes.
"Are you afraid of cows?" asked Billy, glancing over her shoulder fearfully.
"Not of female cows," said the Watermelon.