“Why, Donna” he protested, “how should I know? I never was married before, and besides I was thinking of something else all day.” He slapped his vest pocket and cupped a hand to an ear, in a listening attitude.
“Did you hear a faint jingle?” he queried solemnly.
She pinched his arm, interrupting his flow of nonsense. Women who dearly love their husbands delight in teasing them, and as Donna turned her radiant face to his Bob fancied he could detect a secret jest peeping at him from the ceiled shelter of her drowsy-lidded eyes. Yes, without a doubt she was laughing at him—and he as poor as a church-mouse. He frowned.
“This is no laughing matter, Mrs. McGraw.”
The roguish look deepened.
“Now, what else have I done?” he demanded.
“Nothing—yet. But you're contemplating it.”
“Contemplating what?”
“Telegraphing Harley P. Hennage.”
“Friend wife” said Bob McGraw, “you should hang out your shingle as a seeress. You forecast coming events so cleverly that perhaps you can inform me whether or not we are to walk back to San Pasqual, living like gypsies en route.”