Miss Byrd laughed, a little harshly. “I always was a good mimic, wasn’t I?” she asked. “Of course, it’s hard for Americans to learn English; it’s so much like their own language. But, my word, old chappy, I fawncy I’ve caught the bally idea, don’t you know?”
Topham chuckled. “You surely have!” he declared. “You fooled Ouro Preto completely. He thinks you are English. Indeed, I shouldn’t wonder if he thought you kin to Lord Maxwell.”
“Nor I,” returned Miss Byrd, drily. “You needn’t bother to undeceive him, Walter. His belief may come in handy. He’s from Brazil, you know, and I’m going to that out-of-the-way country, pretty soon.”
“Really?”
“Really! I’m going to do the east coast and perhaps the west coast for the Gazette—write it up commercially, you know, in my racy style.” The girl hesitated; then: “Oh! how I hate it all!” she burst out. “Oh! Walter! Walter! Why didn’t you marry me while I was a real lady?”
Topham hesitated. He was not a ready talker, and such an opening called for quick wit or mature consideration.
“Never mind! You needn’t answer! You dear good fellow! It was my fault, of course. I had ideas above a young navy officer in those days. I haven’t now. But don’t be afraid. I’m not fishing for a proposal. I couldn’t live up to you now any more than I can live up to Aunt Polly’s befo’ de wah standards.”
Topham looked at the girl with sadly mixed feelings. He assured himself that his feeling for her, such as it was, had vanished. Yet her seemingly cheerful renunciation was not altogether as welcome as it should have been. While he was considering his answer, Miss Byrd glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Who is she, Walter?” she demanded.
Topham started in good earnest. Was his secret as plainly to be read as that. “She?” he stammered.
“Of course! The one, the only she. Don’t tell me you haven’t met her, for I know better.”