“That shows his mighty good taste!”
“You bet it does! But he shows darned poor breeding, unless he’s tied up to her.”
“It is up to her, anyway, and maybe they are engaged,” returned Phil, lightly enough.
“I don’t doubt that he would like to be. Guess he will be too, sooner or later. Gee!” he continued in disgust, “I wish some son-of-a-gun would cut the big, fat, over-confident bluffer out.”
“Why don’t you have a try, Jim?” laughed his companion.
“Me? I never had a lass in my life. I’m––I’m not a lady’s man. They are all very nice to me, and all that; but I never feel completely comfortable unless it happens to be a woman who could be my great-grandmother.”
“You’re begging the question, Jim. Why don’t you go over and claim a dance or two from Miss Pederstone, seeing you are so anxious over her and Brenchfield?”
“I would,––bless your wee, palpitating, undiscerning soul, but I don’t dance.”
“Go and talk to her, then.”
“And have somebody come over and pick her up to dance with, from under my very nose? No, thanks! This is a dance, man; and the lassies are here to dance. It would be ill of me to deprive her of all the fun she wants.