“Up to! Why, I never thought of such a—”
“Haw! haw!” roared Mortimer. “If you could only see your face!”
And Beverly Plank, red as a beet, comfortably suffused with reassurance under the reaction from his scare, attempted to refute the other's conclusions: “It doesn't mean anything, Mortimer. She's just the handsomest girl I ever saw. I know she's engaged. I only admired her a lot.”
“You're not the only man,” said Mortimer blandly, still striving to reconcile his preconceived theories with the awkward half-confession of this great, red-fisted, hulking horseman riding at his stirrup.
“I wouldn't have her dream,” stammered Plank, “that I had ever thought of such a—”
“Why not? It would only flatter her.”
“Flatter a woman who is engaged to marry another man!” gasped Plank.
“Certainly. Do you think any woman ever had enough admiration in this world?” asked Mortimer coolly. “And as for Sylvia Landis, she'd be tickled to death if anybody hinted that you had ever admired her.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Plank, alarmed; “You wouldn't make a joke of it! you wouldn't be careless about such a thing! And there's Quarrier! I'm not on joking terms with him; I'm on most formal terms.”
“Quarrier!” sneered the other, flicking at his stirrup with his crop. “He's on formal terms with everybody, including himself. He never laughed on purpose in his life; once a month only, to keep his mouth in; that's his limit. Do you suppose any woman would stand for him if a better man looked sideways at her?” And, reversing his riding crop, he deliberately poked Mr. Plank in the ribs.