As they skirted the oval of Bowling Green the girl nodded to a gray-coated policeman on guard over the little park.
"Who's that?" asked the young man, acutely jealous, although he saw that the officer was not less than fifty years old.
"That's Mr. O'Rourke," she explained. "He's Rose O'Rourke's father. She was graduated from the Normal College only two years ago, and then she went on the stage. She's getting on splendidly, too. She played Queen Elizabeth last year—and didn't she look it? I'm sure she's a great deal handsomer than that old Queen was."
"But that old Queen," he returned, "wasn't the daughter of a sparrow-cop—that's what you call them, don't you?"
"I don't call them so," she responded, "for I think it's vulgar to talk slang."
"But the boys do call a park policeman a sparrow-cop, don't they?" he persisted.
"The little boys do," she answered, "but I know Mr. O'Rourke doesn't like it."
"I can understand that," he replied. "If I had Queen Elizabeth for a daughter, I think I should want to be a king myself."
"Well," the girl went on to explain, "Rose did want him to give up his appointment. She said she was earning enough for her father not to work. But he wouldn't, for all she urged him. She's a kind girl, is Rose, and not a bit stuck-up. She came up to the college last year and recited for us. You should have heard her do 'Curfew shall not ring to-night'; I tell you she was splendid."
"I don't believe she did it any better than you could," he declared.