“What does he want to see me about?”
“Search me. Ouch! Excuse me, Sylvia. I didn’t see it.”
“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m used to hard knocks,” gasped the young woman.
Oliver turned his head to look at her. She was very pretty and very smart looking in the little brown hat that sat jauntily upon her yellow, beautifully coifed hair. Very trig, too. About thirty-two or-three, he hazarded. Fine eyes—a trifle pained at present, but fine, just the same. He found himself wondering if Jane was as pretty as Lansing’s sister—and suddenly it occurred to him that Jane had her “lashed to the mast”—absolutely!
The road got better. “Your ears must have burned last night, Mr. Baxter,” she said.
He started guiltily. “How—what for?” he stammered.
“Old Paul here did nothing but talk about you all the way down from Hopkinsville. I don’t see how you’ve done it. He’s usually quite a snob, you know. I’ve never known him to like anybody but himself before. You must be either superlatively good or superlatively bad. Which is it?”
“Depends entirely on which you prefer, Mrs. Flame,” said Oliver coolly.
“I guess that’ll hold you, Syl,” cried Lansing.
Oliver groaned inwardly. It was getting more difficult every minute to hate the fellow.