“Oh, pshaw!” said Antrim, relapsing into disgusted silence.
Isabel touched the toe of her slipper to the floor and swung the hammock gently. As a comrade, brother—as anything, in fact, but a lover—she fellowshipped Antrim with hearty frankness. They had known each other from early childhood, and the outspoken familiarity of such an acquaintance is not to be set aside by the mere formality of a one-sided love-making.
He was a nice boy, she thought, suffering herself to moralize a little while he was recovering his equanimity. He always looked so well groomed, and his severe taste in the matter of raiment was very creditable. And he was capable, too; every one said that of him. Still he was but a boy; and his smooth-shaven face made him look years younger than he really was; and he wouldn’t wear a mustache, as she wanted him to; and—and——
“Why don’t you say something?” snapped the subject of her moralizings.
“I was thinking about you, and I supposed you would be glad to have me keep quiet if I would do that.”
“I don’t know about that. It depends very much upon what you were thinking. I could tell better if I heard the recapitulation.”
Isabel tossed her head disdainfully. “Anybody would give me a penny for my thoughts,” she said.
“Oh, if it’s a pecuniary matter, here”—and he took a coin from his pocket and gave it to her.
“Thanks! I need some new brushes, and father says I am extravagant. Now you shall have what you have paid for. I was thinking that you know how to dress becomingly—and that you are smart—and that your salary is enough to make poor people envious—and that you look absurdly young—and that a mustache would make you look years older—a-n-d——”
Antrim sawed the air with his arm as he would have slowed down a reckless engineer.