“You say: ‘Ah, there you are.’“

“Never!” said Harrietta Fuller, and brought her closed fist down on her open palm for emphasis. “Never!”

It was August when she again was crossing desert, plains, and farmlands. It was the tail-end of a dusty, hot, humid August in New York when Ken stood at the station, waiting. As he came forward, raising one arm, her own arm shot forward in quick protest, even while her glad eyes held his.

“Don’t take it off!”

“What off?”

“Your hat. Don’t take it off. Kiss me — but leave your hat on.”

She clutched his arm. She looked up at him. They were in the taxi bound for Fifty-sixth Street.