“Think so? Now, I don’t.” This with the air of a connoisseur. “But she did have good eyes.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I like brown ones myself.”
“Brown?” protested Dickie. “They were blue, dark blue and big—the deep kind.”
“Oh, were they?” In my tone must have been that which caused Dickie to suspect that I was teasing him.
“You bet she knows it, too,” he added, vindictively. “Conceited beggars, these girls.”
“Awfully,” I assented. Then, after a pause: “But I thought you were fond of cherries?”
“So I am. If she’d been a boy, I would have tried to buy a quart.”
“She seemed to want you to have some,” I suggested. “Perhaps she would sell you a few.”
Dickie glanced at me suspiciously. “Think so? I’ve a mind to go back and try. Will you wait?”
I said I would; in fact, it was the only thing to be done, for he was off. So I sat down and watched the scorner of girls disappear eagerly around a bend in the road. At the end of a half hour of waiting I began to speculate. Had Dickie’s courage failed him, had he taken to the woods, or was he upbraiding her of the gatepost for the sin of conceit? I would go and see for myself.