Jimmy regarded me reproachfully.
“I bet those farmers in Montreal drink their share all right,” he said. “Of course, that bum Canadian village isn’t really on the map at all” (he was teasing me), “but I’ll bet the booze is right there. Say, don’t you really have cars running there? I bet you had some fine Jay-farmer beaus all right—oh! How about the one whose letters you’re always so glad to get? You nearly fell down the stairs the other day in your hurry to get that one from Miss Darling.”
I couldn’t help laughing to think of Reggie being called a farmer. Jimmy took offense at my laughing.
“Say, what’re you laughing about anyhow? If you don’t want my company, say so, and I’ll take myself off.”
“Don’t be silly, Jimmy. You know very well I like your company, or I wouldn’t be sitting with you now.”
“Then why can’t you drink a glass of beer with a fellow? I bet you would if I were that Montreal chap.”
“I’ll drink the beer on one condition,” I said. “If you’ll promise not to drink any whiskey to-night.”
Jimmy leaned over the table.
“I’ll promise you anything on earth, Marion. I’m half-crazy about you anyhow.”
The waiter was passing, and looking at us, he said: