Miss Hassiebrock lowered her flaming face to scrutinize a tray of rhinestone bar pins.
"I'd like to see any girl in this store turn down a bid with Charley Cox. I notice there are plenty of you go out to the Highland dances hoping to meet even his imitation."
"The rich boys that hang around the Stag and out to the Highlands don't get girls like us anywheres."
"I don't need them to get me anywhere. It's enough when a fellow takes me out that he can tuck me up in a six-cylinder and make me forget my stone-bruise. Give me a fellow that smells of gasolene instead of bay rum every time. Trolley-car Johnnies don't mean nothing in my life."
"You let John Simeon out of this conversation!"
"You let Charley Cox out!"
"Maybe he don't smell like a cleaned white glove, but John means something by me that's good."
"Well, since you're so darn smart, Josie Beemis, and since you got so much of the English language to spare, I'm going to tell you something. Three nights in succession, and I can prove it by the crowd, Charley Cox has asked me to marry him. Begged me last night out at Claxton Inn, with Jess Turner and all that bunch along, to let them roust out old man Gerber there in Claxton and get married in poetry. Put that in your pipe and smoke it awhile, Josie; it may soothe your nerve."
"Y-aw," said Miss Beemis.
The day dwindled. Died.