She was so puzzled by his manner that she sat regarding him with wonder. But he went on talking steadily about his plans until the meal was over. He talked of them when they went back to the porch together and sat in the moonlight. He scarcely gave her an opportunity to speak. Once or twice the idea vaguely occurred to her that for some reason he did not want her to talk. It was a relief to her only to be called upon to listen, but still she was puzzled.
"When we git fixed up," he said, "ye kin hev your friends yere. Thar's them folks, now, as was yere the other day from the Springs—when we're fixed up ye mought invite 'em—next summer, fur instants. Like as not I shall be away myself an'—ye'd hev room a plenty. Ye wouldn't need me, ye see. An', Lord! how it'd serprise 'em to come an' find ye all fixed."
"I should never ask them," she cried, impetuously. "And—they wouldn't come if I did."
"Mebbe they would," he responded, gravely, "if ye was fixed up."
"I don't want them," she said, passionately. "Let them keep their place. I don't want them."
"Don't ye," he said, in his quiet voice. "Don't ye, Louisianny?"
And he seemed to sink into a reverie and did not speak again for quite a long time.