“By George!” Mr. Perley exclaimed, in real astonishment. “See here!” he said. “Had you been drinking, yourself, before you came in? If not, it’s the first time I knew a person could get a talking jag on buttermilk.” “No,” said Lucius, correcting him. “It’s on apple-blossoms. She was sitting under ’em pretending to read a book, but I suppose she was thinking about you, Joe.” “Who was?” “Mary,” Mr. Allen replied quietly. “Mary Ricketts.” “You say she was thinking about _me_?” “Probably she was, Joe. She was sitting there, and the little birds——” “I know you’re a good lawyer,” Joe interrupted, shaking his head in gloomy wonder, “but everybody in town thinks you’re a nut, except when you’re on a law case, and I guess they’re about right. You certainly talk like one!” Mr. Allen nodded. “A reputation like that is mighty helpful sometimes.” “Well, if you like it you’re free to refer all inquirers to me,” said Joe heartily. “You’re trying to tell me Mary Ricketts was ‘thinking’ about me, and I don’t suppose I’ve seen her as much as five times this year; and I haven’t known her—not to speak of—since we were children. I don’t suppose I’ve had twenty minutes’ talk with her, all told, since I got back from college. The only girl I ever see anything of at all is Molly Baker, and that’s only because she happens to live next door. I don’t see even Molly to speak to more than once or twice a month. I don’t have anything to do with _any_ of the girls. I keep _away_ from ’em, because a man with the curse I’ve got hanging over me——” “Thought you didn’t want to talk about that, Joe.” “I don’t,” the young man said angrily. “But I want to know what you mean by this nonsense about Mary Ricketts and me.” “I don’t know if I ought to tell you—exactly.” Here Lucius frowned as with a pressure of conscience. “I’m not sure I ought to. Do you insist on it, Joe?” “Not if you’ve got to talk any more about ‘the little birds!’” Joe returned with sour promptness. “But if you can leave them out and talk in a regular way, I’d like to hear you.” “Have you ever noticed,” Mr. Allen began, “that Mary Ricketts is a beautiful girl?” “She’s not,” said Joe. “She’s not anything like ‘beautiful.’ Everybody in town knows and always has known that Mary Ricketts is an ordinarily good-looking girl. You can call her pretty if you want to stretch it a little, but that’s all.” “That all, you think?” “Certainly!” “You ought to see her in the orchard, Joe!” “Well, I’m not very likely to.” “Well, just why not, now?” “Well, why should I?” “You mean you’ve never given much thought to her?” “Certainly I haven’t,” said Joe. “Why should I?” “Isn’t it strange now!” Mr. Allen shook his head wistfully. “I mentioned that I asked her to go to the band concert with me, didn’t I, Joe?” “You did.” “And did I tell you that she refused?” “Lord, yes!”