“You could.”
“I could learn how to talk.”
“How to talk correctly,” I amended.
“That’s what I meant. Well, it all depends.”
“On what, Wanza?”
“On her. If she’s a certain kind, I can’t go—if she isn’t, I can.”
“It sounds simple,” I decided.
We were silent for a time. I lay back with half closed eyes, watching a king-bird that had a nest in a cottonwood tree on the bank hard by. Presently Wanza spoke lazily:
“There’s a lot of those Dotted Blue butterflies hovering about, Mr. Dale—the gay little busy things—they look like flowers with wings.”
I unclosed my eyes and looked at the azure cloud before us.