"Did you dance with Will Douglas?" catechised the grizzled doctor, declining to be shunted off on a philological discussion. Next to acting as legal major domo to E.M. Pierce, Douglas's most important function in life was apparently to fetch and carry for the reigning belle of Worthington. His devotion to Esmé Elliot had become stock gossip of the town, since three seasons previous.
"Almost half as often as he asked me," said the girl. "That was eight times, I think."
"Nice boy, Will."
"Boy!" There was a world of expressiveness in the monosyllable.
"Not a day over forty," observed the uncle. "And you are twenty-two. Not that you look it"—judicially—"like thirty-five, after all this dissipation."
Esmé rose from her seat, walked with great dignity past her guardian, and suddenly whirling, pounced upon his ear.
"Do I? Do I?" she cried. "Do I look thirty-five? Quick! Take it back."
"Ouch! Oh! No. Not more'n thirty. Oo! All right; twenty-five, then. Fifteen! Three!!!"
She kissed the assaulted ear, and pirouetted over to the broad window-seat, looking in her simple morning gown like a school-girl.
"Wonder how you do it," grumbled Dr. Elliot. "Up all night roistering like a sophomore—"