"Oh, I don't know," says he. "Anyway, I shall wait until I find one with tastes as simple as my own."
"You may," says I, "and then again—Well, I've seen wiser guys than you rushed off their feet by fluffy young parties whose whole stock in trade was a pair of misbehavin' eyes."
"Pooh!" says Peyton. "I've been exposed to that sort of thing as often as anyone. I think I'm immune."
"Maybe you are," I has to admit.
So as I tows Peyton out to the house that afternoon I kind of hands it to myself that I've filled Vee's order. And there standing on the front veranda admirin' the lilacs is Lucy Lee in one of her plain little frocks—a pink and white check—lookin' as fresh and dainty and inexpensive as a prize exhibit from an orphan asylum.
I whispers to Vee on the side: "Well, you see I got him. Peyton's someone she can practice on, too, and no harm done. He's case hardened."
"Really," says Vee, lookin' him over.
"Admits it himself," says I.
"Oh, well, then!" says Vee, with one of her quizzin' smiles.
And at first it looked like Peyton was about to qualify as an all-'round exempt. He barely seemed to see Lucy Lee. While she was unreelin' the sprightly chatter he was inspectin' the baby, or talkin' with Vee, or askin' fool questions about the garden. Hardly takes a second glance at Lucy Lee. I expect he had her sized up as about sixteen. He could easy make that mistake.