Mr. Smith laughed and threw up his hands with a doleful shrug.
“That’s what comes of courting as one man and marrying as another,” he groaned. Then, sternly: “I’ll warn you right now, Maggie Duff, that Stanley G. Fulton is going to be awfully jealous of John Smith if you don’t look out.”
“He should have thought of that before,” retorted Miss Maggie, her eyes mischievous. “But, tell me, wouldn’t you ever dare to come—in your proper person?”
“Never!—or, at least, not for some time. The beard would be gone, to be sure; but there’d be all the rest to tattle—eyes, voice, size, manner, walk—everything; and smoked glasses couldn’t cover all that, you know. Besides, glasses would be taboo, anyway. They’d only result in making me look more like John Smith than ever. John Smith, you remember, wore smoked glasses for some time to hide Mr. Stanley G. Fulton from the ubiquitous reporter. No, Mr. Stanley G. Fulton can’t come to Hillerton. So, as Mahomet can’t go to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mahomet.”
“Meaning—?” Miss Maggie’s eyes were growing dangerously mutinous.
“That you will have to come to Chicago—yes.”
“And court you? No, sir—thank you!”
Mr. Smith chuckled softly.
“I love you with your head tilted that way.” (Miss Maggie promptly tilted it the other.) “Or that, either, for that matter,” continued Mr. Smith genially. “However, speaking of courting—Mr. Fulton will do that, all right, and endeavor to leave nothing lacking, either as to quantity or quality. Think, now. Don’t you know any one in Chicago? Haven’t you got some friend that you can visit?”
“No!” Miss Maggie’s answer was prompt and emphatic—too prompt and too emphatic for unquestioning acceptance.