“Oh, Fitz,” she said sweetly, “you’re not to blame. I should have told you. And you’re honest and loyal and a gentleman. Only I wish sometimes that you weren’t quite so awfully gentlemanly a gentleman.”
The Southerner made a gesture of despair.
“If I could only understand you, Miss Polly!”
“Don’t hope it. I’ve never yet understood myself. But there’s a sympathy in me for the under dog, and this Mr. Perkins seems a sort of helpless creature. Yet in another way he doesn’t seem helpless at all. Quite the reverse. Oh, dear! I’m tired of Perkins, Perkins, Perkins! Let’s talk about something pleasanter—like the plague.”
“What’s that about Perkins?” Galpy had entered the drawing-room where the conversation had been carried on, and now crossed over to them. “I’ll tell you a good one on the little blighteh. D’ you know what they call him at the Club Amicitia since his adventure on the street car, Miss Brewster?”
“What?”
“‘The Unspeakable Perk.’ Rippin’, ain’t it? Like ‘The Unspeakable Turk,’ you know.”
Despite herself, Polly’s lips twitched; in some ways he was unspeakable.
“They’ve nicknamed him that because of his trying to help me, and then—leaving?” she asked.
“Oh, not entirely. There’s other things. He’s a nahsty, stand-offish way with him, you know. Don’t-want-to-know-yeh trick. Wouldn’t-speak-to-yeh-if-I-could-help-it twist to his face. ‘The Unspeakable Perk.’ Stands him right, I should say. There’s other reasons, too.”