“I’ve a little song I want to sing to you, Paul,” he said, then chanted the old negro ‘spiritual’:
“’Fer itself, fer itself,
Fer itself, fer itself,
Every soul got ter confess
Fer itself.’
“And I want you to tell me again, fer yourself, fer yourself, what you just told me.”
Her laughter came in a merry gurgle that delighted him.
“Red Cloud, I do love you,” she said. “My mind is made up. I shall never have any man but you in all this world. Now be good, and let me dress. I’ll have to rush for lunch as it is.”
“May I come over?—for a moment?” he begged.
“Not yet, eager one. In ten minutes. Let me finish with Oh Dear first. Then I’ll be all ready for the hunt. I’m putting on my Robin Hood outfit—you know, the greens and russets and the long feather. And I’m taking my 30-30. It’s heavy enough for mountain lions.”
“You’ve made me very happy,” Dick continued.
“And you’re making me late. Ring off.—Red Cloud, I love you more this minute—”
He heard her hang up, and was surprised, the next moment, that somehow he was reluctant to yield to the happiness that he had claimed was his. Rather, did it seem that he could still hear her voice and Graham’s recklessly singing the “Gypsy Trail.”