As it happened, Jonathan returned late that night to Durford—quite too late to see the transformation of his own front porch, and since he entered by the side door as usual, he did not even smell the new paint. The next morning he sauntered over to Thunder Cliff, all agog for his reward, and Mrs. Burke greeted him at her side door, smiling sweetly.
“Good mornin’, Jonathan. It was awful good of you to paint my front porch. It has needed paintin’ for some time now, but I never seemed to get around to it.”
“Don’t mention it, Hepsey,” Jonathan replied affably. “Don’t mention it. You’re always doin’ somethin’ for me, and it’s a pity if I can’t do a little thing like that for you once in a while.”
Hepsey had strolled round to the front, as if to admire his work, Jonathan following. Suddenly he came to a halt; his jaw dropped, and he stared as if he had gone out of his senses.
“Such a lovely color; gray just suits the house, you know,” Mrs. Burke observed. “You certainly ought to have been an artist, Jonathan. Any man with such an eye for color ought not to be wastin’ his time on a farm.”
Jonathan still gazed at the porch in amazement, 231 blinked hard, wiped his eyes and his glasses with his handkerchief, and looked again.
“What’s the matter with you? Have you a headache?” Hepsey inquired solicitously.
“No, I haven’t got no headache; but when I left that porch yesterday noon it was blue, and now I’m blamed if it don’t seem gray. Does it look gray-like to you, Hepsey?”
“Why certainly! What’s that you say? Do you say you painted it blue? That certainly’s mighty queer. But then you know some kinds of paint fade—some kinds do!” She nodded, looking suspiciously at the work.
“Fade!” Jonathan sneered. “Paints don’t fade by moonlight in one night. That isn’t no faded blue. It’s just plain gray. I must be goin’ color blind, or something.”