“I rather think it would,” said Walter, laughing. “Well, I will save my seventy-five cents, and wait till nature provides me with the genuine article, warranted to stick fast.”
“That will be better, I think.”
“Have you any idea as to Miss Jones’ age?” inquired Walter.
“I see you are getting interested in her. Evidently her ringlets have done the business for you.”
“I deny the charge,” said Walter. “I only felt a little curious.”
“I can gratify your curiosity. Miss Jones calls herself twenty-one, but her brother, who is very apt to make blunders, made some allusion one day fixing her age at twenty-seven. I thought she would have boxed his ears. I shall not soon forget her look of anger and annoyance. She took occasion the next day to refer to herself as twenty-one; but, as the boys say, it was too thin. However, she fancies we are all deceived, and I allow her to think that I consider her youthful.”
“What sort of an evening shall we have?”
“Very literary. Perhaps Miss Jones will read us one of her poems.”
“Does she write poetry?”
“She calls it poetry.”