Helma grins. "Mees Burr, she in bookrary, yes," says she.
"Oh!" says I. "The cousin? That'll be all the better. Good chance for me to be gettin' in right with her. Tell her what to expect, Helma."
That's the sort of social plunger I am—regular drawing-room daredevil, facin' all comers, passin' out the improvised stuff to strangers, and backin' myself strong for any common indoor event. That is, I was until about 8:13 that evenin'. Then I got in range of them quick-firin' dart throwers belongin' to Miss Myra Burr.
Say, there's some people that shouldn't be allowed at large without blinders on. Myra's one. Her eyes are the stabby kind, worse than long hatpins. Honest, after one glance I felt like I was bein' held up on a fork.
"Ouch!" says I, under my breath. But she must have heard.
"I beg pardon," says she. "Did you say something?"
"Side remark to my elbow," says I. "Must have caught the decreasing as I came through. Excuse it."
"Oh!" says she. "You are the young man who dances such constant attendance on Verona, are you?"
"That's a swell way of puttin' it," says I. "And I suppose you're the—er—"
"I am Miss Burr," says she. "Verona is my cousin."