“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Willie!” said Eva.
“Well, I’m not, then. I’m not a bit ashamed, and another thing, I wish you’d stop calling me Willie. It’s nothing but Willie, Willie, Willie, all over the place. Willie’s an old woman’s name. It’s just like an old woman with half a dozen kids.”
“Willie, I’m shocked at you. I never thought you were so—so—ugly.”
“Well, I don’t care if I’m ugly or not. You call me Will, if you want to call me anything—not Willie, or little Willie, any more.”
“And I’ll tell them at home that you swore, too.”
“Tell ’em; tell ’em anything you like. Anyhow, it’s not a real swear—nothing to what I’ll say when I grow up.”
“I hope I don’t see you when you grow up, if that’s the kind of man you’re going to be.”
“Ugh! you’re not a sport. You’re not a sport’s boot-lace,” continued Willie, assuming a lordly air.
“I wouldn’t be anyone’s boot-laces,” answered Eva, disdainfully. “And—and I’ll never come out with you again. You’re a rude boy!”
“Oh, a rude boy, am I?” mimicked Willie. “If you were a man I’d fight you.”