But Leavitt only hangs his head guilty and shuffles his feet. "Then I'll tell you," says she. "Yesterday he slipped out, hunted up his cousin, and got us invited to dinner. More'n that, he said we'd come."
"Well, why not go?" says I.
"Because," says she, "I—I just can't do it. I—I'm—well, we've been around some since we got here, lookin' into the big stores and so on, and I've been noticin' the women, how they talk and act and dress and—and—oh, I'm afraid, that's all!"
"Why, Sallie!" says Mr. Leavitt.
"Yes, I am," she insists. "I'm plumb scared at the thought of mixin' with folks like that—just plumb scared. And, as you know, Mr. Leavitt, it's the first time in my life I've ever been afraid of anything."
"Yes, that's so," says he, "that's so, Sallie. But you're not going to be afraid now. Why should you?"
"Listen to him, Mr. McCabe!" says she. "Do you know what he wants me to do? Spend a lot of money on clothes and rig myself up like—like that woman we saw the other night!"
"And you're going to do it too," says Mr. Leavitt. "You can afford to have the best there is,—a Paris frock, and the things that go with it. I mean you shall, not for my sake, but for your own. You're a wonderful woman, Sallie, and you ought to know it for once in your life. I want my cousin to know it too. You've not only got more brains than most women, but you're mighty good looking, and in the proper clothes you could hold up your head in any company."
"Pshaw!" says Mrs. Leavitt, almost blushin'. "Right before Mr. McCabe too!"
"Well, isn't it so?" demands Mr. Leavitt, turnin' to me.