“Pardon, I meant Indiana. Of course I knew you were not from Michigan.”
“Thanks,” with a little laugh and a shrug, “I am glad you see the point.”
“I usually do—a little late,” he remarked complacently.
“You are from Boston, then, I infer,” she glibly responded.
“Not precisely,” he said, with an approving laugh, “but I admit that I have some Bostonian qualities.”
At this point in the conversation she was drooping over him, so to say, and he was sturdily looking up into her bright, insistent face.
“What a group!” said Crane to Mrs. Bridges, a New York fashion editor. “I’d give the best farm in Kentucky (so far as my title goes) for a photograph of it! Doesn’t she appear to be just about to peck out his eyes!”
“Your lofty imagination plays you fantastic tricks,” said Mrs. Bridges. “Is she the famous Western lady reporter?”
“The same, of the Ringville Star. I met her at the Cincinnati convention. It was there that Bascom of the Bugle called her a bag of gimlets, because she bored him so.”
“Oh!”