“Not on your life,” replied the little man indignantly.  “I ain’t had anything like that since I took the mail-teamin’ contract.”

“How good time do you think Puffy Pete could make across-desert in case I should want it?” inquired the agent after a pause.

The mail-man contemplated his “team,” bubbling and panting a vaporous breath over the platform.  “Pete ain’t none too fond of sand,” he confessed.  “But if you want to git anywhere, him and me’ll git you there.  You know that, Ban.”

Banneker nodded comradely and the post chugged away.

Inside the shack Io had set out the luncheon-things.  To Banneker’s eyes she appeared quite unruffled, despite the encounter which he had surmised from Jimmy’s sketch.

“Get me some flowers for the table, Ban,” she directed.  “I want it to look festive.”

“Why, in particular?”

“Because I’m afraid we won’t have many more luncheons together.”

He made no comment, but went out and returned with the flowers.  Meantime Io had made up her mind.

“I’ve had an unpleasant surprise, Ban.”

“I was afraid so.”

She glanced up quickly.  “Did you see him?”

“No.  Mindle, the mail transfer man, did.”

“Oh!  Well, that was Aleck Babson.  ‘Babbling Babson,’ he’s called at the clubs.  He’s the most inveterate gossip in New York.”

“It’s a long way from New York,” pointed out Banneker.

“Yes; but he has a long tongue.  Besides, he’ll see the Westerleys and my other friends in Paradiso, and babble to them.”

“Suppose he does?”

“I won’t have people chasing here after me or pestering me with letters,” she said passionately.  “Yet I don’t want to go away.  I want to get more rested, Ban, and forget a lot of things.”

He nodded.  Comfort and comprehension were in his silence.

“You can be as companionable as a dog,” said Io softly.  “Where did you get your tact, I wonder?  Well, I shan’t go till I must....  Lemonade, Ban!  I brought over the lemons myself.”

They lunched a little soberly and thoughtfully.

“And I wanted it to be festive to-day,” said Io wistfully, speaking out her thoughts as usual.  “Ban, does Miss Camilla smoke?”

“I don’t know.  Why?”

“Because if she does, you’ll think it all right.  And I want a cigarette now.”

“If you do, I’ll know it’s all right, Butterfly,” returned her companion fetching a box from a shelf.

“Hold the thought!” cried Io gayly.  “There’s a creed for you!  ’Whatever is, is right,’ provided that it’s Io who does it.  Always judge me by that standard, Ban, won’t you?...  Where in the name of Sir Walter Raleigh’s ghost did you get these cigarettes?  ‘Mellorosa’ ...  Ban, is this a Sears-Roebuck stock?”

“No.  It came from town.  Don’t you like it?”

“It’s quite curious and interesting.  Never mind, my dear; I won’t tease you.”