Swickey faced him. “Diana the huntress?”
“Yes, a mythical creature as illusive—as you are. She’s very lovely, too.”
“Does she wash dishes and mop floors and—”
“Tantalize mortals?” he interrupted. “Yes, she does, just the same as she used to forty-seven hundred years ago.”
“I’m not going to ask any more questions,” said Swickey, “but you can talk if you want to. I’ll listen.”
“Thanks awfully. If you’ll sit, just as you are, I’ll answer all those questions you’re not going to ask—every one of them.”
Swickey resumed her position and sat gazing into the gloom. She could hear the murmur of voices from the doorway opposite. Presently she heard David say: “That’s right, Avery.”
“You bet it is, if Davy says so,” murmured Bascomb.
Swickey turned toward him again. “Did Dave really write poetry once, Mr. Bascomb?”
“Really, truly, cross my—pocketbook,” he replied, “only it’s in my other clothes.”