“Well,” remarked her husband, “I only hope something will happen to prevent it.”
“Tom!” exclaimed Gerty Hardin. “What a dreadful thing to say. That sounds like a curse. You make my blood run cold.”
“Shu!” said Hardin, picking up his hat. “That was no curse. You wouldn’t go if it rained, would you?”
“Oh, rain!” She shrugged at that possibility.
“Well, you wouldn’t go if the wind blows!” retorted Hardin, leaving the room.
A minute later he stuck his head through the door.
“Mrs. Youngberg’s outside.”
“Mrs. Youngberg!” cried Gerty, pleasantly fluttered. She ran out into the street without waiting to pick up a hat. “For I’ll make her come in this time,” she thought. “I won’t stand craning my neck and squinting up at her as if she were the great high executioner.”
Mrs. Youngberg leaned out from the box buggy, and kissed her. “How are you these days?” Her voice was solicitous.
“Oh, splendid!” Gerty smiled gaily toward the occupant of the buggy, but the desert sun deflected the smile into a grimace. “Won’t you come in to-day? Do tie up, and have a little visit.”