"I reckon I do," I said confidently, for I could see the chance that my hands had been itching for ever since I took the education of Neva in charge. "First, you must empty the room of candy-boxes, for if he is a prospective suitor, you see, all those boxes would frighten him away. He would think you are entirely too popular already."
"There ain't a girl in this town got half as many," she said rather wistfully, and I saw that the loss of the boxes meant bereavement to her. "Mine comes up to the top of the piano on both sides, while Stella Hampton's don't more than fill in under the bottom of the center-table!"
"But you must remember that he is a doctor," I reminded her soothingly, "and they are awfully queer about germs. He might get it into his head that those empty boxes were regular nests for them—and they may be, for all we know."
"All right—if you say so," the poor child said sorrowfully, and I knew that her affection for me had been put to a fiery test.
"Then the McKinley picture! It ought to come down. It is dismal, somehow—it might cast a damper over his feelings."
"All right," she agreed again, much more willingly this time. "I know that Mr. Roosevelt does look more cheerful, so, if you say so—"
"But I don't," I almost shrieked. "We can put a tall vase of roses in the space so that no picture will be needed."
"Oh, that will be lovely," she exclaimed gratefully; "and I'll wear flowers in my hair."
"I believe black velvet ribbon will be prettier—just a band, you understand—no combs or fancy pins. Your hair is too pretty to be disfigured with ornaments."
Her eyes showed slow, but gratified, comprehension.