“What do you call little ways?” asked the Mayor.
“Oh, being nice.”
“And what is niceness?” he went on, in an unsatisfied voice.
“Niceness?—well, it is hard to tell. Pick up her gloves if she drops them, never cross her, always kiss her good-bye in the morning, and tell her she’s the sweetest woman in the world when you come home in the evening.”
“Well, now,” said the Mayor, in an aggrieved voice, “as if I’m likely to have the chance. You won’t even let me call on her.”
“No, don’t you go near her,” said Berty, “not for awhile. Not till I sound her about you.”
“How do you think I stand now with her?” asked Mr. Jimson, with a downcast air.
“Well, to tell the truth,” said Berty, frankly, “I think it’s this way. She wasn’t inclined to pay much attention to you at first, not any more than if you were a table or a chair. When you began to talk she observed you, and I think she was saying to herself, ‘What kind of a man is this?’ Then when Grandma drove Tom and Roger out of the room, I think she wanted to laugh.”
“Then she must have been a little interested,” said the man, breathlessly.
“No,” said Berty, gravely, “when a woman laughs at a man, it’s all up with him.”