"A little jealousy is a good thing, so I'll help you. But—they don't have it in them. They're as calm and placid as bayou water."
Blake was fond of mildly teasing the girl about her popularity, assuming, as an old friend, a whimsically injured tone. She could never be sure how much or little his speeches meant, but, being an outrageous little coquette herself, she seldom put much confidence in any one's words.
"Tell me," he went on—"I haven't seen you for a week—who are you engaged to now?"
"The idea! I'm never really engaged; that is, hardly ever."
"Then there is a terrible misapprehension at large!"
"Oh, I'm always misapprehended. Even Bernie misapprehends me; he thinks
I'm frivolous and light-minded, but I'm not. I'm really very serious;
I'm—I'm almost morose."
He laughed at her. "You don't mean to deny you have a bewildering train of admirers?"
"Perhaps, but I don't like to think of them. You see, it takes years to collect a real train of admirers, and it argues that a girl is a fixture. That's something I won't be. I'm beginning to feel like one of the sights of the city, such as Bernie points out to his Northern tourists. Of course, you're the exception. I don't think we've ever been engaged, have we?"
"Um-m! I believe not, I don't care to be considered eccentric, however.
It isn't too late."
"Bernie wouldn't allow it for a moment, and, besides, you're too serious. A girl should never engage herself to a serious-minded man unless she's really ready to—marry him."