“What?”

“Well, I suppose I’m foolish, but—­I’m beginning to believe in spells.  You know, Mrs. Strange’s husband is a sort of—­ necromancer.”

“How silly!”

There was no further opportunity for words, as the woman reappeared at that instant; but a little later Alaire went in search of Blaze, still considerably mystified.  As she neared the farm buildings she glimpsed a man’s figure hastily disappearing into the barn.  The figure bore a suspicious resemblance to Blaze Jones, yet when she followed he was nowhere to be seen.  Now this was curious, for Texas barns are less pretentious than those of the North, and this one was little more than a carriage-house and a shelter for agricultural implements.

“Mr. Jones!” Alaire called.  She repeated Blaze’s name several times; then something stirred.  The door of a harness closet opened cautiously, and out of the blackness peered Paloma’s father.  He looked more owlish than ever behind his big, gold-rimmed spectacles.  “What in the world are you doing in there?” she cried.

Blaze emerged, blinking.  He was dusty and perspiring.

“Hello, Miz Austin!” he saluted her with a poor assumption of breeziness.  “I was fixin’ some harness, but I’m right glad to see you.”

Alaire regarded him quizzically.  “What made you hide?” she asked.

“Hide?  Who, me?”

“I saw you dodge in here like a—­gopher.”

Blaze confessed.  “I reckon I’ve got the willies.  Every woman I see looks like that dam’ dressmaker.”

“Paloma was telling me about you.  Why do you hate her so?”

“I don’t know’s I hate her, but her and her husband have put a jinx on me.  They’re the worst people I ever see, Miz Austin.”

“You don’t really believe in such things?”

Blaze dusted off a seat for his visitor, saying:  “I never did till lately, but now I’m worse than a plantation nigger.  I tell you there’s things in this world we don’t sabe.  I wish you’d get Paloma to fire her.  I’ve tried and failed.  I wish you’d tell her those dresses are rotten.”

“But they’re very nice; they’re lovely; and I’ve just been complimenting her.  Now what has this woman done to you?”

It seemed impossible that a man of Blaze Jones’s character could actually harbor crude superstitions, and yet there was no mistaking his earnestness when he said: 

“I ain’t sure whether she’s to blame, or her husband, but misfortune has folded me to herself.”

“How?”

“Well, I’m sick.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I don’t exactly feel it, either, but I am.  I don’t sleep good, my heart’s actin’ up, I’ve got rheumatism, my stomach feels like I’d swallowed something alive—­”

“You’re smoking too much,” Alaire affirmed, with conviction.