“You like me sing ad you?”

“Come over here.”

“How you like me danze?—liddle bit summer danze?”

“Come over here. What’s a summer dance, anyhow?”

She ran lightly indoors, and was back so soon that she seemed scarcely to have left him. She had slipped on a red-and-yellow flimsy kimono, and had decked her hair and bosom with flaming poppies.

“Tha’s summer sunshine,” she said, spreading her garment out on each side with a joyous little twirl. “I am the Sun-goddess, and you?—you jus’ the col’, dark earth. I will descend and warm you with my sunshine.” For a moment she stood still, her head thrown back, her face shining, her lips parted and smiling, showing the straight little white teeth within. Then she danced softly, ripplingly, back and forth. The summer winds were sighing and laughing with her. Her face shone out above her lightly swerving figure, her little hands and bare arms moved with inimitable grace.

“You are a genius,” he said to her, when she had subsided, light as a feather blown to his feet.

“Tha’s sure thing,” she agreed, roguishly.

Her assurance in herself always tickled him immensely. He threw his hat at her with such good aim that it settled upon her head. She approved his clever shot, laughed at him, and then, pulling it over her eyes, lay down on the mats and imitated his favorite attitude to a nicety. He laughed uproariously. He was in fine humor. They had been married over a month now, and she had not left him save that first time. He was growing pretty sure of her now.

She perceived his good-humor, and immediately bethought herself to take advantage. She put the rim of his hat between her teeth, imitated a monkey, and crawled towards him, pretending to beg for her performance. He stretched his long arms out and tried to reach her, but she was far enough off to elude him.