Blacker and blacker the huddling thunder-caps spotted across the brilliant, sunny sky.  Gaspier and gaspier in each lulling tree-top, in each hushing bird-song, in each drooping grass-blade, the whole torrid earth seemed to be sucking in its breath as if it meant never, never to exhale it again.

Once more in the midst of a particularly hideous glare the girl took occasion to rein in and wait for him, turning once more to his flushed, miserable countenance a little face inordinately pale and serene.

“If you’re not writing a book, what would you like to talk about, Mr. Barton?” she asked conscientiously.  “Would you like to talk about peat-bog fossils?”

“What?” gasped Barton.

“Peat-bog fossils,” repeated the mild little voice.  “Are you interested in peat-bog fossils?  Or would you rather talk about the Mississippi River pearl fisheries?  Or do you care more perhaps for politics?  Would you like to discuss the relative financial conditions of the South American republics?”

Before the expression of blank despair in Barton’s face, her own face fell a trifle.  “No?” she ventured worriedly.  “No?  Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Barton, but you see—­you see—­I’ve never been out before with anybody—­my own age.  So I don’t know at all what you would be interested in!”

“Never been out before with any one her own age?” gasped Barton to himself.  Merciful Heavens! what was her “own age”?  There in her little khaki Norfolk and old slouch hat she looked about fifteen years old—­and a boy, at that.  Altogether wretchedly he turned and grinned at her.

“Miss Edgarton,” he said, “believe me, there’s not one thing to-day under God’s heaven that does interest me—­except the weather!”

“The weather?” mused little Eve Edgarton thoughtfully.  Casually, as she spoke, she glanced down across the horses’ lathered sides and up into Barton’s crimson face.  “The weather?  Oh!” she hastened anxiously to affirm.  “Oh, yes!  The meteorological conditions certainly are interesting this summer.  Do you yourself think that it’s a shifting of the Gulf Stream?  Or just a—­just a change in the paths of the cyclonic areas of low pressure?” she persisted drearily.

“Eh?” gasped Barton.  “The weather?  Heat was what I meant, Miss Edgarton!  Just plain heat!—­Damned heat—­was what I meant—­if I may be so explicit, Miss Edgarton.”

“It is hot,” conceded Eve apologetically.

“In fact,” snapped Barton, “I think it’s the hottest day I ever knew!”

“Really?” droned Eve Edgarton.

“Really!” snapped Barton.

It must have been almost half an hour before anybody spoke again.  Then, “Pretty hot, isn’t it?” Barton began all over again.

“Yes,” said Eve Edgarton.

“In fact,” hissed Barton through clenched teeth, “in fact I know it’s the hottest day I ever knew!”

“Really?” droned Eve Edgarton.

“Really!” choked Barton.