Bascomb’s astonishment quickened his naturally eager pulses.
“That was nice of you, Swickey,—in a way. Do you really mean it?”
“Don’t I usually mean what I say?” she asked, laughing.
“Yes, I think you do—to my sorrow.”
“Always?” she said, with a touch of unexpected coquetry.
“There’s one exception—just now. Let’s sit down on this log and watch the heat-lightning. The sky over there is just like a big purple Easter egg turned inside out, with little red cracks coming and going.”
“It’s not going to rain here,” she replied, with naïve assurance. “That storm will go south of us. They always do when they commence over there.”
“You’re a regular little Delphian Oracle when it comes to forecasting weather. Can you tell fortunes?”
“I wish I could,” she sighed. “Can you?”
“When I can see ’em—certified and payable to bearer.”