of my face. The move don't escape her, though.

"Candy?" says she, sniffin'.

"Sorry I can't offer you a cigarette," says I, holdin' out the bag.

"Humph!" says she. "I have smoked them, though. M-m-m-m! Gumdrops!
You dear boy!"

Yes, Gladys and me had a real chummy time of it durin' that hour's
drive, and I notice she put away her share of the candy just as
enthusiastic as if she'd been a kid in short dresses. As a matter of
fact, she acts and talks like any gushy sixteen-year-old. That's about
what she is, I discovers; though I wouldn't have guessed it if she
hadn't let it out herself.

But, say, she's some wise for her years, little Gladys is, or else
she's a good bluffer! She had me holdin' my breath more'n once, as she
opens up various lines of chatter. She'd seen all the ripe problem
plays, was posted on the doin's of the Reno colony, and read the Robert
Chambers stuff as fast as it came out.

And all the time she talks she's goin' through target practice with her
eyes, usin' me as the mark. A lively pair of lamps Gladys has too, the
big, innocent, baby-blue kind that sort of opens up wide and kind of
invites you to gaze into the depths until you get dizzy. Them and the
little, openin' rosebud mouth makes a strong combination, and if it
hadn't been for the mural decorations I might have fallen hard for
Gladys; but ever since I leaned up against a shiny letterbox once I've
been shy of fresh paint. So I proceeds to hand out the defensive josh.

"Roll 'em away, Sis," says I, "roll 'em the other way!"

"Pooh!" says she. "Can't a person even look at you?"

"You're only wastin' ammunition," says I. "You can't put any spell on
me, you know."

"Oh, really!" says she, rakin' me with a quick broadside. "Do you mean
that you don't like me at all?"

"Since you've called for it," says I, "I'll admit I ain't strong for
these spotlight color schemes, specially on kids."

"Kids!" she sputters. "I think you're perfectly horrid, so there!"

"Stick to it," says I. "Makes me feel better satisfied with myself."

"Redhead!" says she, runnin' her tongue out.

"Yes, clear to the roots," says I, "and the tint didn't come out of a
bottle, either."

"I don't care," says she. "All the girls do it."

"Your bunch, maybe," says I; "but there's a few that don't."

"Old sticks, yes," says she. "I'm glad you like that kind. You're as
bad as Mummah."

"Is that the worst you can say of me?" says I. "How th