"That wouldn’t work, either," objected the Watermelon. "Because there would be so many more to do the serving than there would be people to serve. No, we are both wrong. Heaven is a grove of trees back of a white garage. There’s a fallen log and a couple sitting on it." "I should think that would be monotonous," said Billy. "Do they talk?" "Sure, they talk. Heaven ain’t a deaf and dumb asylum." "I should think they would get talked out during eternity." "Ah," said the Watermelon, leaning a bit nearer, "eternity is but a minute." "What do they talk about?" "Heaven." "Are they angels?" "One is." Billy laughed. "Who are you?" she asked, leaning toward him, one hand resting on the log between them, her steady eyes on his face. The Watermelon again drew forth the card case, extracted a card and presented it to her with a flourish. Holding it, she shook her head dubiously. "I mean are you a stock-broker? Are you on ’Change? Father has been nearly all his life, and he looks it. His eyes and—everything. Your eyes are different, quite different. I don’t mean in color and size, for of course they would be, but in expression." "How do you know?" asked the Watermelon. "You have only seen their expression when I have been looking at you, and a man doesn’t look at a girl as if she were the tape from the ticker." "I know," acknowledged Billy. "But I have known brokers all my life, and some have been young, and they—they aren’t like you. I never sat on a log with one and talked about Heaven." "Well, you see, I am a minister’s son, and I had Heaven with every meal, as it were." "Maybe that’s it," agreed Billy. A stick snapped behind them as though some one were approaching their retreat with stealthy tread under cover of the friendly bushes. "Are you afraid of cows?" asked Billy, glancing over her shoulder fearfully. "Not of female cows," said the Watermelon. "A broker wouldn’t have said that," objected Billy, pursing up her mouth. "A broker would say, ’No, indeed, Miss Bartlett. Don’t be afraid. A cow is really harmless,’ and smile as if I were young and half-witted, anyway." A stick snapped again, nearer, and a woodpecker fled from a group of trees, scolding angrily. Billy rose nervously. "If that’s a male cow—" "Sit down," ordered the Watermelon. "It’s no cow, unfortunately. It’s the general." "Don’t you like the general?" asked Billy, sitting down again, but ready to rise quickly, instantly. "Yes, I like him, but I don’t think I would if I were a motor-car." "I have known him and Henrietta all my life," said Billy. "Henrietta has been like a mother to me," she added, a statement Henrietta would have denied, shortly but firmly. "Really, we ought to go back." "Politeness is not politeness unless it comes from the heart," said the Watermelon, in the tones that had made Henrietta think of a minister, she knew not why. "Did your father used to say that?" "No, he never had any cause to. We never were polite."