“Don’t tell her that!” commanded Neale. “She is proud enough already. And she has a deadly crush on you, Miss Hastings.”
“On me?” Miss Hastings smiled; then, as her upper lip began to lift she grew suddenly sober again. “And—and I can’t talk to her—or to any one!” she groaned.
“But you are talking all right,” said Neale, amazed.
“But you made me. And I have to pick my wordth. Oh! Don’t you thee!” wailed the girl from the Back Bay. “My—my—oh, dear me, my teeth——”
“Lost ’em?” asked Neale, with quick sympathy. “But you can get more.” Then he grinned suddenly. “Mr. Howbridge has an extra set; maybe he would lend them.”
“Oh!” gasped Miss Hastings. Then she actually laughed, and in laughing she showed a little red gap in her upper front teeth.
“Don’t—don’t!” she begged. “I know you are funny. You have thuch good timeth with that Mith Kenway. But pleathe don’t make me laugh. I had a dreadful acthident latht fall. Wath thrown from my horthe in the Fenway. The dental thurgeon promithed to have the plate ready before the Horridole thailed. But it didn’t come to the dock. Now I have thent a wireleth meththage——Oh! Ithn’t it terrible?”
“It’s a shame,” agreed Neale, but with dancing eyes. “And can’t you have a concert because of that?”
“Well, I thertainly can’t take part in one,” she said rather tartly.
“You’d bring down the house if you did,” giggled Neale O’Neil. “But never mind. I’ll help you. Have you talked with the other members of the committee?”