"That was the intention, Timothy," she remarked casually; and then came an unexpected question: "Do ladies in Canada smoke, Tim?"
Tim was visibly embarrassed. "Not sich as we calls ladies, Miss," he stammered; and then realising that he had made a faux pas he blundered on—"that is, Miss, I mean t' say—"
A rippling laugh from beneath the car cut short further explanation.
"Tim, Tim," she cried mockingly, "what a sad courtier you would make—you're too deliciously truthful."
Poor Tim was red with chagrin.
"I don' know wot a kertyer is," he replied defensively; "I'm a hod-carrier meself."
"Stick to it, lad," she laughed, "the hod lost one of its best exponents when you came to the war."
But the colonel now appeared at the door, and Tim, with a hasty adieu to his fair tormentor, sprang across the road. When we were all snugly tucked in the car, he stood for a moment looking ruefully toward the cause of his recent embarrassment.
"Dat's a queer gent, sir," he observed to the colonel, "dat lady-shoffer 'cross de way. It ain't on'y her boots wot's like a man's—de works in her belfry's queer too."
Reggy secretly sympathised with Tim's discomfiture, for it was only the day before, when he had made a graceful but unavailing whack at a golf ball, that he had turned to see her watching him intently—hands in pockets, cigarette in mouth.