“I’ll be around to-morrow at 10:15,” said Thomas, “with some spinach and a case of carbonic.”
“I’ll practice that what-you-may-call-it,” said Celia. “I can whistle a fine second.”
The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general literature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements of iron tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman’s Auxiliary of the Ancient Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a description of certain stages of its progress without intruding upon the province of the X-ray or of park policemen.
A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the latticed “passage.”
“Sixteen a week isn’t much,” said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his shoulder blades.
Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march. Shopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for a dozen handkerchiefs.
“Maybe I’ll get a raise next month,” said Thomas. “I’ll be around to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap.”
“All right,” said Celia. “Annette’s married cousin pays only $20 a month for a flat in the Bronx.”
Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt Henrietta’s invincible pride of caste and pa’s mightiness as a Colossus of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her grocer’s young man might go whistle for a living.
Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with “The Devil’s Dream,” whistled keenly between his teeth.