“Home—home!” chattered William. “Do you think we five men can bring up a distractingly pretty eighteen-year-old girl with curly cheeks and pink hair?”
“With wha-at?”
“No, no. I mean curly hair and pink cheeks. Bertram, do be sensible,” begged the man. “This is serious!”
“Serious! I should say it was! Only fancy what Cy will say! A girl! Holy smoke! Tote her along—I want to see her!”
“But I say we can't keep her there with us, Bertram. Don't you see we can't?”
“Then take her to Kate's, or to—to one of those Young Women's Christian Union things.”
“No, no, I can't do that. That's impossible. Don't you understand? She's expecting to go home with me—HOME! I'm her Uncle William.”
“Lucky Uncle William!”
“Be still, Bertram!”
“Well, doesn't she know your—mistake?—that you thought she was a boy?”