"In the first place, you know"—and there I pulled up. No, dash it, I wasn't going to say a jolly word about poor Jack—no, sir! But then, about the other one—well, she was just a treacherous snake in the what's-its-name, and she ought to be exposed. By Jove, she should be!
"It's the frump, you know," I said indignantly.
"The—the what?"
Her pretty teeth flashed like the keyboards of a tiny organ—you could even hear a little gurgly, musical quiver somewhere behind. And then I remembered that, of course, she wouldn't know whom I meant.
"Oh, your guest, you know—your friend from school," I went on, trying to tread cautiously and yet feeling myself growing red. "Oh, see here now, I don't like to say things, but—er—"
"Oh, go on!" she trilled, her sweet face shining wistful.
"Well, I mean this—er—Miss Kirkland; came out with us this morning, don't you know. I think of her as the frump—little idea—er—nickname of mine, you know, she's so awful!" And I screwed my glass with a chuckle.
For an instant I thought she wouldn't catch it, she stared at me so blankly. Then the joke of it—the jolly aptness, so to speak—got her full and square, and she just lifted a scream, hugging her knee and rocking back and forth, her face suffused, her laughter pealing like a chime of bells.
And I just rocked, too, keeping her company. Really, I don't think I ever laughed so much since some chap plunked down on the hard crown of my new tile last winter. At least I wanted to laugh—in church, you know, and it's so awful how you feel there when something—oh, you know! And if you could have seen that poor fellow's face!
By Jove, how glad I was for her jolly sense of humor that could see the point of things so quickly, and think them clever. Always had so dashed little patience with stupid people, don't you know. And just here another little thing came to me and I let her have it: