“The measly he-doll! I wish I’d broke him a year ago instead of waiting for the Steeloid scrap. What’d you say when he asked you?”
“Your face gets such a curious shade of magenta when you are angry, Caleb,” mused Desirée, observing him critically, her head on one side. “But it doesn’t match your hair a little bit. There, I didn’t mean to tease you. Yes, I did mean it, too, but I’m sorry. I told him I couldn’t marry him, of course.”
“Good work!” approved Caleb, “What’d he say then?”
“He—he asked if I’d try and look on him as a brother—‘a dear brother,’ and—”
She broke off with a reminiscent laugh.
“Well, what did you say?”
“I’m afraid I was a little rude. But I didn’t mean to be. I’d heard a smothered giggle from over in the corner. So I told him if I’d really had any use for a brother—a ‘dear brother,’—I could reach right behind the divan and get one. He stalked over to the divan. And sure enough there, behind the cushions, was Billy, all wudged up in a little heap. He—”
“All—what?” asked the perplexed Conover, pausing in the midst of a Homeric guffaw.
“‘Wudged.’ All wudged up—like this—” crumpling her ten fingers into a white, compact little bunch. “Mr. Blacarda was very angry. He went away.”
She joined for an instant in Conover’s laughter; then checked herself with a stamp of her foot.