fork.

"Ouch!" says I, under my breath. But she must have heard.

"I beg pardon," says she. "Did you say something?"

"Side remark to my elbow," says I. "Must have caught the decreasing as I
came through. Excuse it."

"Oh!" says she. "You are the young man who dances such constant
attendance on Verona, are you?"

"That's a swell way of puttin' it," says I. "And I suppose you're
the--er--"

"I am Miss Burr," says she. "Verona is my cousin."

"Well, well!" says I. "Think of that!"

"Please don't reflect on it too hard," says she, "if you find the fact
unpleasant."

"Why--er--" I begins, "I only meant--ah-- Don't let me crash in on your
readin', though."

Her thin lips flatten into a straight line--the best imitation of a smile
she can work up, I expect--and she turns down a leaf in her magazine.
Then she shifts sudden to another chair, where she has me under the
electrolier, facin' her, and I knows that I'm let in for something. I
could almost hear the clerk callin', "Hats off in the courtroom."

Odd, ain't it, how you can get sensations like that just from a look or
two? And with dimmers on them lamps of hers Myra wouldn't have scared
anybody. Course, her nose does have sort of a thin edge to it, and her
narrow mouth and pointed chin sort of hints at a barbed-wire disposition;
but nothing real dangerous.

Still, Myra ain't one you'd snuggle up to casual, or expect to do any
hand-holdin' with. She ain't costumed for the part, for one thing. No,
hardly. Her idea of an evenin' gown seems to be to kick off her
ridin'-boots and pin on a skirt. She still sticks to the white
neck-stock; and, the way her hair is parted in the middle and drawn back
tight over her ears, she's all fixed to weather a gale. Yes, Myra has
all the points of a plain, common-sense female party just taggin'
thirty-five good-by.

Not that I puts any of them comments on the record, or works 'em in as
repartee. Nothing like that. I may look foolish, but there are times
when I know enough not to rock the boat. Besides, this was Myra's turn
at the bat; and, believe me, she's no bush-leaguer.

"H-m-m-m!" says she, givin' me the up-and-down inventory. "No wonder
you're called Torchy. One seldom sees hair quite so vivid."

"I know," says I. "No use tryin' to play it for old rose, is there? All
I'm touchy about is havin' it called red."

"For goodness' sake!" says she. "What shade would you call it?"

"Why," says I