"Say, you ce'tainly get the best notions, honeybug," he shouted.
"Do you think she'll come?"
"Sure she'll come."
"I'll fix up the bestest dinner ever was, and maybe—"
Her conclusion wandered off into the realm of unvoiced hopes, but her husband knew what it was as well as it she had phrased it.
When Clay came home that evening he stopped abruptly at the door. The lady of his dreams was setting the table in the dining-room and chatting gayly with an invisible Kitty in the kitchen. Johnnie was hovering about her explaining some snapshots of Clay he had gathered.
"Tha's the ol' horn-toad winnin' the ropin' championship at Tucson. He sure stepped some that day," the Runt boasted.
The delicate fragrance of the girl's personality went to Clay's head like wine as he stepped forward and shook hands. To see her engaged in this intimate household task at his own table quickened his pulse and sent a glow through him.
"You didn't know you had invited me to dinner, did you?" she said, little flags a-flutter in her cheeks.
They had a gay dinner, and afterward a pleasant hour before Clay took her home.