“Little silly!” said Tavia, smiling upon her chum tenderly. “You don’t suppose I would do anything so crude—or rude—as to speak to the gentleman? ‘Fie! fie! fie for shame! Turn your back and tell his name!’ And you don’t know it, you know you don’t, Doro.”
Dorothy broke into smiles again and shook her head; her own eyes, too, dancing roguishly.
“I only know his initials,” she said.
“What?” gasped Tavia Travers in something more than mock horror.
“Yes. They are ‘G. K.’ I saw them on his bag. Couldn’t help it,” explained Dorothy, now laughing outright. “But decide, dear! Shall we change at Manhattan Transfer?”
“If he does—there!” chuckled Tavia. “We’ll get out if the nice Western cowboy person does. Oh! he’s a whole lot nicer looking than Lance Petterby.”
“Dear me, Tavia! Haven’t you forgotten Lance yet?”
“Never!” vowed Tavia, tragically. “Not till the day of my death—and then some, as Lance would himself say.”
“You are incorrigible,” sighed Dorothy. Then: “He’s going to get out, Tavia!”
“Oh! oh! oh!” crowed her chum, under her breath. “You were looking.”