“Look here, Mr. Jack,” said she, “did you ever see Mr. Parker before tonight, or did any one introduce you?”
“You have sized the case all right, Miss Laura, but what of it? I had to do it.”
“A song by Miss Davidson,” said some one, and Miss Laura turned to me and said:
“Either get your hat and go or else don’t speak to any one while I am gone.”
“Call me Jack,” said I.
“Jack.”
“I’ll be here.”
She was on to my curves all right. She knew if I tried to talk to any of that bunch I would spill. A fellow with a shock of tan colored hair worked the piano for her and she sang something that made me hold my breath. They gave her the hand and then she sang “Home, Sweet Home” in a way that would bring tears from a deaf mute. When she came back to me the tears were running down my cheeks, but I didn’t know it until she laughed.
“You are a good-hearted boy,” said she, “but don’t you think you had better go now? I must not spend all my time with you, you know, and I want to talk to some of the other people.”
“No,” said I, “this may be my last chance of heaven and I am going to see you home.”