“They—we—him. Yes, Dickie?”
“You—don’t you think we might become engaged?”
“Why—I suppose we might, some day, Dickie.”
“To-day. I’m going on eighteen and you’re sixteen. Lots of people are engaged for years—as long as three years. I’d be twenty-one and you nineteen.”
“Yes, Dickie; when you’re twenty-one, I’ll be nineteen.”
“But, Mermaid, don’t you—don’t you care?”
“If it would help you pass that chemistry exam, I’d become engaged to you right away, Dickie,” sighed Mermaid. “Of course I care. If you flunk that you can’t enter technical school or anywhere else.”
“Oh, damn the chemistry!” roared Mr. Hand. “Exam, Damn!”
“That’s a short poem; remarkable poem,” Mermaid commented with some coldness. “Full of—full of emotion. Conforms to Wordsworth’s definition of poetry, ‘emotion recollected in tranquillity.’ But you’re not tranquil enough, Dickie. I don’t think I want to be engaged to any one who swears regularly.”
“Beg your pardon, ’m sure,” Mr. Hand mumbled, sulkily. “I won’t say it again. Go on, don’t mind me! Go on, go with Tommy. He’s almost twenty. Or Mister Vanton, who is twenty-two. I’m only about eighteen.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and said loftily: “If you don’t mind.” Lifting his cap, he inclined his head and moved away.