"Well, of all the little spitfires."
"What do you think I am? What does every one of you, up and down town, think I am? Do I look like I was born yesterday? Well, I wasn't, or the day before or the day before that. Honest to God, if I was a nice-appearing fellow like you I'd be ashamed, I would. I'd go out in the garden and eat worms, I would."
He retreated before her scorn, but smiling. "I'll get you yet, you little vix," he said; "you pretty little black-eyed vix, you; I'll get you yet.'
"Like hell you will."
"If you change your mind, come out on the eight-eighteen, girlie. Two blocks to the left of the station; the corner house with a little weather-cock over the porch. Can't miss it. I'll be drapin' the tree in tin fringe and wishing you were there."
"Oh," she cried, her voice cracked spang across with a sob, "I—I just hate you!"
"No, you don't," he said, smiling and gathering his parcels.
"Do."
"Don't."
"Do."