When we went back to our seats I was careful to steer the conversation into safer channels.
That night at bed-time, Joey confidentially said to me:
“I won’t tell Wanza that the new woman is our wonder woman—’cause she mightn’t like it. Anyhow, is she any more of a wonder woman than Wanza, Mr. David?”
It took me many months to answer that question satisfactorily to myself.
CHAPTER II
HAIDEE
ONCE, years ago, when I was a lad, in an old volume of poems in my father’s library I came across a steel engraving of a beautiful woman. She had a small head with raven black tresses bound smoothly about her brow with a fillet, but twisted back over her ears and ending in ringlets over her shoulders. She had big dark eyes, a tiny mouth, a slim white throat, and infinitesimally small hands and feet. Her name was Haidee. I think her feet fascinated me most; for she wore shoes unlike any I had ever seen, ending in high curving points at the toes. She was a most distracting, elusive personality.
When my wonder woman placed her foot in my palm, and mounted her mare at my meadow bars, to myself I muttered: “Haidee.” So, the following morning, in answer to Joey’s query: “What’s her name, Mr. David?” I answered “Haidee,” and grinned at the lad sheepishly through the smoke that arose from the griddle I was greasing with bacon rind.
Joey, giving the cake batter in the yellow pitcher furtive sly dabs with the iron spoon when he thought me unaware, looked grave.
“It don’t sound nice. It sounds like that name you say sometimes—”
“Ssh!”