"Why, do you know," she said, looking at me earnestly, "when I was home for the holidays—" Then she paused. "Don't tell Brother Jack I told you this—will you, Mr. Lightnut? He's so sensitive about it."
"Certainly not," I said feelingly.
I thought the wistful face brightened.
"Well, when I was home, then, I put Brother Jack under the table two nights running; and you know that's going some!"
And smiling proudly, she poured out another! But not any more, for I put away the decanter.
My brain was reeling, as they say in books; dash it, I was almost sick. Poor, poor little girl! And nobody to remonstrate with her. What a shame—what a shame!
By Jove, I wondered if she would listen to me! I fixed my glass resolutely as we resumed our seats, and bent toward her earnestly.
"May I say something very seriously, Miss Billings?" I began nervously. "Without offense, you know—"
But she was off in a fit of chuckling. Most girls giggled, I had always heard, but she chuckled. Somehow, I liked it less than anything she did; it sounded so devilish ghastly, you know. And then it was so awfully embarrassing—oh, awfully. If you've never tried to remonstrate with a girl about her vicious habits and had her chuckle, you just can't imagine! I felt my cheeks flushing jolly red and looked down, and then I had to look somewhere else quickly, for I seemed to be staring rudely at the ends of the pajamas, where her feet, as the poet chap says, "like little mice, stole in and out—" only, in this case, they were thrust into bedroom slippers, that looked oddly like a pair of my own—but miles and miles smaller.
"Say, do you know," she was chortling, "the way you do get off that Willie boy sort of talk—oh!" And she placed her hand to her side as she laughed. "I can see how Jack thinks you're the greatest ever, Mr. Lightnut."