"I'd rather wait on a dog!" she said, scorn and rebellion in her pretty eyes.
"You can marry somebody else and beat him on that game, anyhow. I'll bet there are plenty of them standing around waiting."
"O Mr. Morgan!" Dora was drowned in blushes, greatly pleased. "Not so many as you might think," turning her eyes upon him with coquettish challenge, "only Mr. Gray and Riley Caldwell, the printer on the Headlight."
"Mr. Gray, the druggist?"
"Yes, but he's too old for me!" Dora sighed, "forty if he's a day. He's got money, though, and he's perfec'ly grand on the pieanno. You ought to hear him play The Maiden's Prayer!"
"I'll listen out for him. I saw him washing his window a while ago—a tall man with a big white shirt."
"Yes," abstractedly, "that was him. He's an elegant fine man, but I don't give a snap for none of 'em. I wish I could leave this town and never come back. You'll be in for dinner, won't you?" as Morgan pushed back from the repletion of that standard meal.
"And for supper, too, I hope," he said, turning it off as a joke.
"I hope to God!" said Dora fervently, seeing no joke in the uncertainty at all.