Charley smiled; Alice saw he was weakening.
“Oh, do tell me, which of the two?”
“Which of the two?” repeated Charley, looking puzzled. “Surely, you cannot be in earnest; for of all the men I know, Dory—the D-D-D-Don” [What, Charley, stammering on a mere lingu palatal!] “is the least likely to have two loves.”
“Dody, Dody! Why do you call him Dody?”
“I called him the Don,” said Charley, doggedly.
“And Dody, too! Why Dody? What a droll nickname!” And she laughed.
“You are mistaken; I did not call him Dody.”
“You didn’t?”
“No; but my tongue,” said Charley, coloring, “is like a mustang,—buck-jumps occasionally, and unseats its rider—her rider.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” said Alice, with tender earnestness, and gave his arm—this time consciously—an affectionate, apologetic squeeze. [I don’t deny it! Al Frob.]