"Stop calling me 'sweet one,'" Miss Prescott said crossly. "I'm not your sweet one, or anybody else's sweet one, and I'll get you something to fill your fat stomach, you lazy loafer, when I get good and ready. Not before."
"Well, all right," he murmured resignedly, settling down on the stout pine rail of the porch and fanning himself with his hat. "But I love you just the same. What's that? Did I hear you curse or something?"
"Something. I only said damn because you make me sick. Love, love, love, morning, noon and night! Don't men ever think of anything else?"
"Not when you're around," he told her.
"Oh, it's the very devil," admitted Sally Jane, rubbing her red mouth with a reflective forefinger. "Am I so alluring?"
"Who has been kissing you now?" he asked idly and wondered why her face should flame at the word. Wondered—because everybody knew Sally Jane.
On her part she wondered if he had seen what had passed in the draw the day before, then decided instantly that he had not, else his manner toward her would have been decidedly different.
"You haven't answered my question?" he persisted, still idly.
"Does it need one?"
"Well, no, not yet, anyway. When you're engaged to me, I'll know who's kissing you."