ll degree too much to the north."

"My nurse was a Jap. Do you think Oriental influence could account for
it?" she asked anxiously.

"And at the corner of your mouth there is a most reprehensible dimple.
Dimples like that simply ought not to be allowed. As for your nose--"

"Never mind my nose," said she with dignity. "It minds its own
business."

"No," he continued, with the air of one who sums up to a conclusion. "I
cannot approve the _tout ensemble_. It's interesting. And peculiar. And
suggestive. But too post-impressionistic."

"That is quite enough about me. Suppose you change the subject now and
account for yourself."

"I? Oh, I came along to frustrate the plots of a wicked father."

"He isn't a wicked father! And I didn't ask you why you're here. I want
to know who you are!"

"I'm the Perfect Pig."

Little Miss Grouch stamped her little French heel. As it landed the
young man was six feet away, having retired with the graceful agility of
a trained boxer.

"You're very light on your feet," said she.

"Therein lies my only hope of self-preservation. _You_ were not very
light on my foot yesterday, you know."

"Has it recovered enough to take me for a walk?"

"Quite!"

"Still," she added, ruminating, "ought I to go walking with a man whose
very name I don't know?"

"My name? Do you think that's fair, when you won't tell me yours?
Besides, I don't believe you'd care about it, anyway."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Well, it isn't very impressive. People have even been known to jeer at
it."

"You're ashamed of it?"

"No-o-o-o," said the Tyro artfully.

"You are! I'd be ashamed to be ashamed of my name--even if it were
Smith."

"Hello! What's the matter with Smith?" demanded the young man, startled
at this unexpected turn.

"Oh, nothing," said she loftily, "except that it's so awfully common.
Why, there are thousands of Smiths!"

"Common? Well, I'll be jig--" At this point, resentment spurred the
ingenuity of the Tyro to a prompt and lofty flight. "If you don't like
Smith," he said, "I wonder what you'll think when you hear the awful
truth."

"Try me."

"Very well," he sighed. "I suppose it's foolish to have any feeling
about it. But perhaps you'd be sensitive, too, if you'd been born to the
name of Daddleskink."

_"What!"_

"Daddleskink," said the Tyro firmly. "Sanders Daddleskink. Suppose you
were Mrs. Sanders Daddleskink."

"I shan't suppose any such thing," she retorted indignantly.