"You dress awfully well," she said approvingly. "Clothes seem to hang on you just right—"
"But—" he said, laughing.
"Well, there are one or two things I'd like you to do," she admitted, a little confused. "I wish you'd wear a mustache, just a little one like the Duke. You'd look stunning."
He laughed in a way that disconcerted her, and an impulse came into his mind to try her, for he began to resent the assumption of possession which she had assumed.
"How do you think that would go in a mill town with overalls and a lunch can?"
"What do you mean?
"In a week I expect to be shipped to New England, to a little town, with ten thousand inhabitants; nice, cheery place with two moving-picture houses and rows on rows of factory homes for society."
"For how long?"
"For four or five years."
"Bojo, how horrible! You're not serious!"