“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I didn’t know it was your moon. I thought it was just the regular old moon that had got lost on the way home.”
“Oh, don’t apologize. I rather hoped somebody would come up to have a look at it; but you’d better run along now. This is private property, you know.”
“Thanks for the hint,” he remarked. “But on a night when moons hang in trees you can’t expect me to be scared away so easily. And besides, I’m an outlaw,” he ended in a tone meant to be terrifying.
She betrayed neither surprise nor fear, but laughed and uttered a “Really!” that was just such a “really” as any well-bred girl might use at a tea, or anywhere else that reputable folk congregate, to express faint surprise. Her way of laughing was altogether charming. A girl who donned a clown’s garb for night prowling and manufactured moons for her own amusement could not have laughed otherwise, he reflected.
“A burglar?” she suggested with mild curiosity.
“Not professionally; but I’m seriously thinking of going in for it. What do you think of burgling as a career?”
“Interesting—rather—I should think,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation, as though she were weighing his suggestion carefully.
“And highway robbery appeals to me—rather. It’s more picturesque, and you wouldn’t have to break into houses. I think I’d rather work in the open.”
“The chances of escape might be better,” she admitted; “but you needn’t try the bungalow down there, for there’s nothing in it worth stealing. I give you my word for that!”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of the bungalow. I had it in mind to begin by holding up a motor. Nobody’s doing that sort of thing just now.”