“That’s a lie,” he said, promptly, “got up by enemies.”
“Well, you don’t talk elegantly,” said Berty, wildly. “Miss Everest couldn’t stand that.”
“Who says I ain’t elegant?” asked the Mayor, fiercely.
“I do,” replied his companion. “You say ‘dry’ for thirsty, and ‘I ain’t’ for I am not, and ‘git’ for get, and—and lots of other things, and you don’t move gracefully. Miss Everest likes tall, thin men. I once heard her say so.”
“Is it my fault that I’m short?” roared the Mayor. “I didn’t make myself.”
Roger, convulsed with amusement on the veranda above, saw with regret that Grandma was waking up.
“Quarrelling again!” she murmured, moving her head about restlessly. “Send him home, Berty. Mr. Jimson, don’t mind her.”
Roger had missed something, for Berty was now giving the Mayor a terrible scolding. “I think you are a horrid, deceitful man. You come here with your mind all made up about a certain woman. You pretend to like me, then draw me out about the one you like. I’ll never speak to you again.”
Roger hung entranced over the railing. The back gate had just slammed on Mr. Jimson, and Berty was pouring out a flood of eloquent endearment on the pigeons.
Roger ran down the stairs with a broad smile on his face. There was no danger of sentimental nonsense between these two people.