Bert's arm went around her waist again.
“We're here, ain't we?” he said. “An' that's what counts. The dead are dead, an' you can bet your sweet life they just keep on stayin' dead.”
Mary put her hand over his mouth and began to chide him for his awfulness, whereupon he kissed the palm of her hand and put his head closer to hers.
The merry clatter of dishes was increasing as the dining-room filled up. Here and there voices were raised in snatches of song. There were shrill squeals and screams and bursts of heavier male laughter as the everlasting skirmishing between the young men and girls played on. Among some of the men the signs of drink were already manifest. At a near table girls were calling out to Billy. And Saxon, the sense of temporary possession already strong on her, noted with jealous eyes that he was a favorite and desired object to them.
“Ain't they awful?” Mary voiced her disapproval. “They got a nerve. I know who they are. No respectable girl 'd have a thing to do with them. Listen to that!”
“Oh, you Bill, you,” one of them, a buxom young brunette, was calling. “Hope you ain't forgotten me, Bill.”
“Oh, you chicken,” he called back gallantly.
Saxon flattered herself that he showed vexation, and she conceived an immense dislike for the brunette.
“Goin' to dance?” the latter called.
“Mebbe,” he answered, and turned abruptly to Saxon. “Say, we old Americans oughta stick together, don't you think? They ain't many of us left. The country's fillin' up with all kinds of foreigners.”