Considering that it was about six-thirty, I wanted to ask who was telling a taradiddle now; but I resisted the temptation, and replied—­

“No.  And I promise not to bother you about my private affairs any more.”

Madge laughed again merrily, saying, “You are the most obvious man I ever met.  Now why did you say that?”

“I thought you were making breakfast an excuse,” I said, “because you didn’t like the subject.”

“Yes, I was,” said Madge, frankly.  “Tell me about the girl you are engaged to.”

I was so taken back that I stopped in my walk, and merely looked at her.

“For instance,” she asked coolly, when she saw that I was speechless, “what does she look like?”

“Like, like—­” I stammered, still embarrassed by this bold carrying of the war into my own camp—­“like an angel.”

“Oh,” said Madge, eagerly, “I’ve always wanted to know what angels were like.  Describe her to me.”

“Well,” I said, getting my second wind, so to speak, “she has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.  Why, Miss Cullen, you said you’d never seen anything so blue as the sky yesterday; but even the atmosphere of ‘rainless Arizona’ has to take a back seat when her eyes are round.  And they are just like the atmosphere out here.  You can look into them for a hundred miles, but you can’t get to the bottom.”

“The Arizona sky is wonderful,” said Madge.  “How do the scientists account for it?”

I wasn’t going to have my description of Miss Cullen sidetracked, for, since she had given me the chance, I wanted her to know just what I thought of her.  Therefore I didn’t follow lead on the Arizona skies, but went on—­

“And I really think her hair is just as beautiful as her eyes.  It’s light brown, very curly, and—­”

“Her complexion!” exclaimed Madge.  “Is she a mulatto?  And, if so, how can a complexion be curly?”

“Her complexion,” I said, not a bit rattled, “is another great beauty of hers.  She has one of those skins—­”

“Furs are out of fashion at present,” she interjected, laughing wickedly.

“Now look here, Miss Cullen,” I cried indignantly, “I’m not going to let even you make fun of her.”

“I can’t help it,” she laughed, “when you look so serious and intense.”

“It’s something I feel intense about, Miss Cullen,” I said, not a little pained, I confess, at the way she was joking.  I don’t mind a bit being laughed at, but Miss Cullen knew, about as well as I, whom I was talking about, and it seemed to me she was laughing at my love for her.  Under this impression I went on, “I suppose it is funny to you; probably so many men have been in love with you that a man’s love for a woman has come to mean very little in your eyes.  But out here we don’t make a joke of love, and when we care for a woman we care—­well, it’s not to be put in words, Miss Cullen.”

“I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Mr. Gordon,” said Madge, gently, and quite serious now.  “I ought not to have tried to tease you.”