“He comes here a lot. Twice I’ve met him here. Is he stuck on you?”
“I think he is.”
“I guess most people are,” sighed Caleb. “I don’t blame him; so long as you don’t care about him. You don’t, do you?” he finished anxiously.
“He’s very handsome,” she observed demurely.
“Is he?”
“Well—pretty handsome.”
“Is he?”
“He’s—I’ve heard girls say so.”
“H’m! Nice crimson lips, red cheeks, oily curled hair and eyes like a couple of ginger snaps!”
“No,” corrected Desirée, judicially, “More like chocolate pies. There’s something very sweet and melting about them. And, besides, you mustn’t run him down. He’s very nice to me. Last night he asked me to marry him. What do you think of that? Honestly, he did.”