“What kind do you mean?”
“A charmer, a Jane-chaser, lady-killer?”
The perfect naiveté with which he uttered this outrageous slang brought me to hearty laughter, the first of long time.
“Mr. Chanler,” I said, suppressing my amusement, “is a much sought after man.”
“Sure; he’s got the dough. But does he chase ’em back? Eh? Is he—Here, I’ll put it up to you straight: would you let your own sister go walking with him alone in the park after dark?”
I rose. But for the life of me I could not hold offense in the face of his honest, worried expression.
“Pierce,” I said, “that is another thing one does not do—ask such questions. And I have told you that you are not to discuss Mr. Chanler with me.”
“Aw, the devil!” he blurted. “Why can’t you be human? You’re a reg’lar fellow; I can see it in the back of your eyes. I’m a reg’lar fellow. Why can’t we get together?”
“Not on a discussion of Mr. Chanler behind his back,” I chuckled. “It isn’t done.”
Pierce doubled himself up on the stool which he was sitting on and grasped his thin ankles in his hands.