"You know there is—nothing more for us."
"I know nothing of the kind. The idea! And don't you dare struggle and kick and scream when I kiss you. Do you hear me, Louis?"
He laughed and watched her as she went swiftly and gracefully about the table arrangement, glancing up at him from moment to moment.
"The idea," she repeated, indignantly. "I guess I'll kiss you when I choose to. You are not in holy orders, are you? You haven't made any particular vows, have you—?"
"One."
She halted, looked at him, then went on with her labours, a delicate colour flushing face and neck.
"Where in the world is that salad, Louis? A hungry girl asks you! Don't drive me to desperation—"
"Are we going to have coffee?"
"No, it will keep us awake all night! I believe you are bent on my destruction." And, as she hovered over the table, she hummed the latest popular summer-roof ballad:
"'Stand back! Go 'way!
I can no longer stay
Although you are a Marquis or a Earl!
You may tempt the upper classes
With your villainous demi-tasses
But—
Heaven will protect the Working Girl!'"