"You shut up, Jimmie Birdsong—it ain't your face!"
"You know all righty, missy, why she wants you to wash it—you know—"
"Ma, he keeps fussin' with me! Jimmie, please don't."
"Aw, I ain't, neither, ma. She's always peckin' at me. I—I ain't mad at her; but I want her to wash that—that stuff off her face."
"Jimmie!"
Her lips quivered, and she glanced toward the stranger, with her lips drooping over her eyes like curtains to her shame; and he smiled at her with eyes as soft as spring rain, his voice a caress.
"Go, little lady. You're all tired out and too pretty and too sweet not to wash your face and—cool it off."
"She's gotta go, or I'll get her in a corner and rub—"
"I'm goin', ain't I, Jimmie? Honest, the minute we make up you begin pickin' a fuss again."
"Oh, my children!"