He groaned and laughed. “Just my bedtime. But I’ll brace myself and show up awake.... I wonder if I’ve got an evening shirt.” He happened to glance at her, was struck by a queer gleam in her gray eyes. “What now?”
“Nothing—nothing,” she hastened to assure him. “Just some silliness. I’m full of it.”
He went on painting, and presently resumed his soliloquizing: “May have to come in ordinary clothes. But that wouldn’t be a killing matter—would it?... This isn’t town—it’s backwoods.... I’ve heard some sorts of Americans have got to be worse than the English for agitation about petty little forms. Are yours that sort?”
“Mother’s a dreadful snob,” said she weakly.
“Well, I’ll do the best I can,” was his careless reply. “Perhaps it’ll be just as well if I have to horrify her.” He laughed absently.
“I hope you’ll do the best you can,” pleaded she. “For my sake.”
He looked amused. “You don’t want her to think you picked up a hooligan—eh?”
“Oh, I don’t care what she thinks—not deep down,” cried the girl. “I don’t care what anybody thinks about you—not really. But on the surface—I’m—I’m a horrible snob, too.”
“All right. I’ll try not to disgrace you utterly.”
She reflected absently. Presently she interrupted his painting with “Heck and father are both small. But Hank—I might send you down one of Hank’s shirts. He’s almost as big as you—in the way of size. And I could get my maid to borrow one from his valet——”