“Rather, but I’m worried about my master just now.”
Gringo wasn’t listening to me. “Hush up, old man, for a bit,” he said anxiously. “I believe that girl is wasping master again.”
I looked over my shoulder. Mrs. Bonstone had wiggled on to the arm of the huge chair her husband was sitting in.
“Odd, isn’t it, Norman,” she was saying, “that you so love this conventional life after all your Bohemianism.”
Mr. Norman gave her a queer look from his expressive eyes, and said nothing.
“I should think you would hate evening dress and tight shoes and dinners and dances, after the prairies and South America and—the Bowery.”
“Master’s in a cold perspiration; he don’t like those things—he hates ’em as much as I do,” said Gringo indignantly, “but he thinks she likes ’em, so he keeps his mouth shut.”
In listening to him, I lost Mr. Bonstone’s reply, and Gringo went on wrathfully, “Ain’t she the limit! She sits there night after night and sticks pins in my poor boss, and he thinks she’s cute and clever.”
“I guess you don’t understand her any more than you do the Riverside dogs,” I said. “Looks to me as if she liked him.”
“Then,” replied Gringo, “why don’t she tell him so, instead of wasping his life out?”