“You bet!” he returned with unmistakable pleasure in his voice.
The Girl served him with one of each, and when he thanked her she beamed with happiness.
“Let me send you some little souvenir of to-night”—he said, a little while later, his admiring eyes settled on her hair of burnished gold which glistened when the light fell upon it—“something that you’d just love to read in your course of teaching at the Academy.” He paused to search his mind for something suitable to suggest to her; at length he questioned: “Now, what have you been reading lately?”
The Girl’s face broke into smiles as she answered:
“Oh, it’s an awful funny book about a kepple. He was a classic an’ his name was Dent.”
Johnson knitted his brows and thought a moment.
“He was a classic, you say, and his name was—Oh, yes, I know—Dante,” he declared, with difficulty controlling the laughter that well-nigh convulsed him. “And you found Dante funny, did you?”
“Funny? I roared!” acknowledged the Girl with a frankness that was so genuine that Johnson could not help but admire her all the more. “You see, he loved a lady—” resumed the Girl, toying idly with her spoon.
“—Beatrice,” supplemented Johnson, pronouncing the name with the Italian accent which, by the way, was not lost on the Girl.
“How?” she asked quickly, with eyes wide open.