Miss Colby looked once shrewdly at him in the dim light on the ferry-boat. No; he did not have the perfidious smirk or the brazen swagger of the lady-killer. Sincerity and modesty shone through his boreal tan. It seemed to her that it might be good to hear a little of what he had to say.
“You may sit down,” she said, laying her hand over a yawn with ostentatious politness; “and—mind—don’t get fresh or I’ll call the steward.”
The Man from Nome sat by her side. He admired her greatly. He more than admired her. She had exactly the looks he had tried so long in vain to find in a woman. Could she ever come to like him? Well, that was to be seen. He must do all in his power to stake his claim, anyhow.
“My name’s Blayden,” said he—“Henry Blayden.”
“Are you real sure it ain’t Jones?” asked the girl, leaning toward him, with delicious, knowing raillery.
“I’m down from Nome,” he went on with anxious seriousness. “I scraped together a pretty good lot of dust up there, and brought it down with me.”
“Oh, say!” she rippled, pursuing persiflage with engaging lightness, “then you must be on the White Wings force. I thought I’d seen you somewhere.”
“You didn’t see me on the street to-day when I saw you.”
“I never look at fellows on the street.”
“Well, I looked at you; and I never looked at anything before that I thought was half as pretty.”