urriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy over a rather box-like plan
he had conceived. It was based upon some "trade-lasts" gleaned at
dancing-school, to the effect that he was "awful good-looking and
_English_, sort of."

"Myra," he said, lowering his voice and choosing his words carefully,
"I beg a thousand pardons. Can you ever forgive me?" She regarded
him gravely, his intent green eyes, his mouth, that to her
thirteen-year-old, arrow-collar taste was the quintessence of romance.
Yes, Myra could forgive him very easily.

"Why--yes--sure."

He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes.

"I'm awful," he said sadly. "I'm diff'runt. I don't know why I make faux
pas. 'Cause I don't care, I s'pose." Then, recklessly: "I been smoking
too much. I've got t'bacca heart."

Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and reeling
from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp.

"Oh, _Amory_, don't smoke. You'll stunt your _growth!_"

"I don't care," he persisted gloomily. "I gotta. I got the habit. I've
done a lot of things that if my fambly knew"--he hesitated, giving her
imagination time to picture dark horrors--"I went to the burlesque show
last week."

Myra was quite overcome. He turned the green eyes on her again. "You're
the only girl in town I like much," he exclaimed in a rush of sentiment.
"You're simpatico."

Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though vaguely
improper.

Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a sudden
turn she was jolted against him; their hands touched.

"You shouldn't smoke, Amory," she whispered. "Don't you know that?"

He shook his head.

"Nobody cares."

Myra hesitated.

"_I_ care."

Something stirred within Amory.

"Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess everybody
knows that."

"No, I haven't," very slowly.

A silence, while Amory thrilled. There was something fascinating about
Myra, shut away here cosily from the dim, chill air. Myra, a little
bundle of clothes, with strands of yellow hair curling out from under
her skating cap.

"Because I've got a crush, too--" He paused, for he heard in the
distance the sound of young laughter, and, peering through the frosted
glass along the lamp-lit street, he made out the dark outline of the
bobbing party. He must act quickly. He reached over with a violent,
jerky effort, and clutched Myra's hand--her thumb, to be exact.