“O I think she thinks I’m a pretty decent sort,” he said.
“Why do you like her?” I asked. “She doesn’t rouge.”
“I loathe rouge,” he said warmly.
I shook him by the hand again—again warning him that it was without prejudice.
“Does she like you at all?” I asked.
“She likes jazzing with me, I know,” he assured me.
“Life isn’t a dance,” I replied.
“No, of course not,” he said. “I know that. I know it’s a jolly serious affair.”
“And you are proposing that Miss Holt should help you with the poultry?” I suggested.