“Course not. Gals never see the fine points of good argyment.”
Sandy’s superiority was overwhelming, but Birdie had borne with him with amused patience until now. She had known him a long time as a boarder, but never until now had she realized the blundering conceit that was his. She felt that she had given him rope enough, and it was time to bring him up with a jerk.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” she mocked him, curtseying.
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Sandy returned, with a clumsy bow, failing to realize her change of attitude.
“If you guess I’m right for marryin’, maybe you’ll hand me my diploma,” she said, with a demure down-drooping of her eyelids.
She waited, and finally glanced up into his flushed face. Her sarcasm had struck home at last, and without hesitation she went on mercilessly––
“Say, if you ain’t goin’ to hand me a diploma, guess you can let me get on with my sewin’. Havin’ been a married man, maybe you’ll understand men-folk ain’t a heap of use around when a woman’s sewin’. Guess they’re handy ladlin’ out most things, but I’d say a man ain’t no more use round the eye of a needle than a camel.”
Sandy’s dignity and temper were ruffled. It was inconceivable that Birdie––or, as he mentally apostrophized her, “this blamed hash-slinger”––should so flout him. How dared she? He was so angry that words for once utterly failed him, and he moved towards the door with gills as scarlet as any blustering turkey-cock. But Birdie had no idea of sparing him, and hurled her final sarcasm as she turned again to her cupboard.
“I’d hate to be one o’ Zip’s kids with you gettin’ busy around me,” she cried, chuckling in an infuriating manner.
It was too much for Sandy. He turned fiercely as he reached the door.