“Quit your kiddin’,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “and don’t think, because a girl’s a good-enough pal to want to see you get on, that she’s throwing herself at your head.”
He laughed hugely.
“Got me that time, all right!”
“Be sensible,” she said, relenting. “It ain’t often we get a chance to sit down alone. Lord, you don’t know what good it does me to slump in here for a quiet chat! You’re one of my own kind, King!”
O’Leary yielded to the temptation of the moment far enough to play with the coiled bracelet which lay against the girl’s wrist.
“Say, I’m rather curious about you,” he said, studying her gravely. “You see a queer side of life.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know that.”
“There’s one thing I have got,” she said, eager to seize the rare opportunity to lead him into a serious conversation, “and that’s a good, hard bump of common sense. Don’t make any mistakes about me and—and the others. I don’t lose my head, King.”
“Well, that’s a wonder, for you’re pretty enough to make the Pope himself lose his,” said O’Leary, patting her hand.