“I needed you to complete my turnout,” she said, when they were under way. Her dazzling smile took part of the edge off her unconscious insolence—or was it conscious? He found her a puzzle, with her flashes of good taste and flashes of good sense, with her wit that seemed accidental and her folly that seemed her real self.
He set his teeth and tried to think only of how much “I need her to complete my turnout,” and of how pretty she was—for there was no denying her beauty, or her style for that matter, in spite of its efflorescence. He saw that everyone was looking at them, but he did not appreciate that his own striking costume and his eyeglass were as magnetic as were her hat, her bright skin, and her dust-coat with its gaudy collar. She was supremely happy. The most conspicuous girl in Chicago, driving with the most conspicuous man, in the most conspicuous trap and on the most conspicuous highway—what more could a young woman ask?
“Wonder why everyone stares so?” she said with deliberate intent to provide an opening for compliment. She wished to hear him say the flattering things she was thinking about herself.
“I fancy they’re staring at what I can’t take my eyes off of,” he replied. “You do look swift this morning.”
“Swift! I don’t like that.” She was frowning. “You Englishmen come over here and think you can say what you please.”
“I can’t see where’s the harm in telling a girl she’s pretty and well got up, and looks a stunner.”
“That isn’t what ‘swift’ means in Chicago.”
“Really! You don’t say! That’s what it means in London.”
“But you’re not in London.”
“No.” His tone strongly suggested a wish that he were.