“But I want an aristocrat,” cried the young Missourian, “one to her finger tips, enough of one to be above aristocracy. And she is.”
“Then,” said his friend in despair, “it’s because she don’t, just simply don’t care for you?”
“You’re a long time finding that out.”
“What! You don’t mean––”
“Fact,” said Driscoll. “Even I guessed it at last. I told her I had been reckoning that she––”
“Cared, yes?”
Driscoll made a wry face. “And she said I mustn’t jump at conclusions, I might scare ’em.”
The Troubadour chuckled heartlessly. Neither was Driscoll’s sense of humor entirely gone.
“‘Oh, awful goddess! ever dreadful maid!’” Mr. Boone quoted.
“She’s sure a wonder,” the other owned gloomily.