"Well, here they come."
"They've got to be pretty fine for me!"
Enthroned as lords of the drama, they pronounced their infallible judgments. Every joke was new, every vaudeville turn an occasion for a gale of applause. The appearance of the "Six Templetons" was the occasion of a violent discussion between the adherents of the blondes and the admirers of the brunettes, led by the impressionable McNab.
"I'm all for the peach in the middle!"
"Ah, rats! She's got piano legs. Look at the fighting brunette at this end."
"Why, she's got a squint."
"Squint nothing; she's winking at me."
"Yes, she is!"
"Watch me get her eye!"
Stover, of course, preserved an attitude of necessary dignity, gently tolerant of the rakish sentimentalities of the younger members of the flock. Moreover, he was supremely aware that the sparkling eyes under the black curls (were they real?) were not looking at McNab, but intensely directed at his own person—all of which, as she could not have read the Register, was a tribute to his own personal and not public charms.