For all that Io’s “my dear” was the most casual utterance imaginable, it brought a quick flush to Banneker’s face.  Chattering carelessly, she washed up the few dishes, put them away in the brackets, and then, smoking another of the despised Mellorosas, wandered to the book-shelves.

“Read me something out of your favorite book, Ban....  No; this one.”

She handed him the thick mail-order catalogue.  With a gravity equal to her own he took it.

“What will you have?”

“Let the spirit of Sears-Roebuck decide.  Open at random and expound.”

He thrust a finger between the leaves and began: 

“Our Special, Fortified Black Fiber Trunk for Hard Travel.  Made of Three-Ply Ven—­”

“Oh, to have my trunks again!” sighed the girl.  “Turn to something else.  I don’t like that.  It reminds me of travel.”

Obedient, Banneker made another essay: 

“Clay County Clay Target Traps.  Easily Adjusted to the Elevation—­”

“Oh, dear!” she broke in again.  “That reminds me that Dad wrote me to look up his pet shot-gun before his return.  I don’t like that either.  Try again.”

This time the explorer plunged deep into the volume.

“How to Make Home Home-like.  An Invaluable Counselor for the Woman of the Household—­”

Io snatched the book from the reader’s hand and tossed it into a corner.  “Sears-Roebuck are very tactless,” she declared.  “Everything they have to offer reminds one of home.  What do you think of home, Ban?  Home, as an abstract proposition.  Home as the what-d’you-call-’em of the nation; the palladium—­no, the bulwark?  Home as viewed by the homing pigeon?  Home, Sweet Home, as sung by—­Would you answer, Ban, if I stopped gibbering and gave you the chance?”

“I’ve never had much opportunity to judge about home, you know.”

She darted out a quick little hand and touched his sleeve.  The raillery had faded from her face.  “So you haven’t.  Not very tactful of me, was it!  Will you throw me into the corner with Mr. Sears and Mr. Roebuck, Ban?  I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be.  One gets used to being an air-plant without roots.”

“Yet you wouldn’t have fitted out this shack,” she pointed out shrewdly, “unless you had the instincts of home.”

“That’s true enough.  Fortunately it’s the kind of home I can take along when they transfer me.”

Io went to the door and looked afar on the radiant splendor of the desert, and, nearer, into the cool peace of the forest.

“But you can’t take all this,” she reminded him.

“No.  I can’t take this.”

“Shall you miss it?”

A shadow fell upon his face.  “I’d miss something—­I don’t know what it is—­that no other place has ever given me.  Why do you talk as if I were going away from it?  I’m not.”

“Oh, yes; you are,” she laughed softly.  “It is so written.  I’m a seeress.”  She turned from the door and threw herself into a chair.