“There are times,” sighed Stella that evening, beneath the moon, as we sat against the log rail and listened to the jazz, “out here in these mountains, when I feel as though I were a wild creature, like these others.”
“My dear,” said I, “I can believe you. Your putties do look wild.”
“Listen,” said she to me. “You do not get me.”
The sob of the saxophone came through the window near by, the froufrou of the dancers made a soft susurration faintly audible. I looked into Stella's dark eyes, at her clouded brow.
“Come again, loved one,” said I to her.
“What I mean to say,” she resumed, “is that there are times when I feel as though I did not care what I did or what became of me out here.”
My hand fell upon her slender fingers as they lay twitching in the twilight.
“Stella,” I exclaimed, “lit-tel one, if that is the way you really feel—or the way really you feel—or really the way you feel—why don't you go down to Jackson's Hole and try a congressional lunch?”