"You seem very comfortable," Randy was as stiff as a wooden tobacco sign.
"We are," Becky said. "Mr. Dalton waved his wand like the Arabian nights——"
"My man did it," said Dalton; "he's down there in the car."
Randy felt a sense of surging rage. The Pavilion was his. It was old and vine-covered, and hallowed by a thousand memories. And here was Dalton trespassing with his tables and chairs and his Canton teapot. What right had George Dalton to bring a Canton teapot on another man's acres?
Becky was pouring tea for him. "Two lumps, Randy?"
"I don't want any tea," he said ungraciously. His eyes were appraising the flame of her cheeks, the light in her eyes. What had Dalton been saying? "I don't want any tea. And there's a storm coming."
All her life Becky had been terrified in a storm.
She had cowered and shivered at the first flash of lightning, at the first rush of wind, at the first roll of thunder. And now she sat serene, while the trees waved despairing arms to a furious sky, while blackness settled over the earth, while her ears were assailed by the noise of a thousand guns.
What had come over her? More than anything else, the thing that struck against Randy's heart was this lack of fear in Becky!