full of stiff, supplicating female figures. "It's Indian, isn't it?"

"Yes. I call it Rain Spirits, or maybe, Indian Rain. In the Southwest,
where I've been a good deal, the Indian traditions make women have to do
with the rain-fall. They were supposed to control it, somehow, and to be
able to find springs, and make moisture come out of the earth. You see
I'm trying to learn to paint what people think and feel; to get away from
all that photographic stuff. When I look at you, I don't see what a
camera would see, do I?"

"How can I tell?"

"Well, if I should paint you, I could make you understand what I see."
For the second time that day Hedger crimsoned unexpectedly, and his eyes
fell and steadily contemplated a dish of little radishes. "That
particular picture I got from a story a Mexican priest told me; he said
he found it in an old manuscript book in a monastery down there, written
by some Spanish Missionary, who got his stories from the Aztecs. This one
he called 'The Forty Lovers of the Queen,' and it was more or less about
rain-making."

"Aren't you going to tell it to me?" Eden asked.

Hedger fumbled among the radishes. "I don't know if it's the proper kind
of story to tell a girl."

She smiled; "Oh, forget about that! I've been balloon riding today. I
like to hear you talk."

Her low voice was flattering. She had seemed like clay in his hands ever