“Only think so! Humph!” She swung a restless foot. “Can't you do anything?”
“Well,” critically. “I think I can eat, and sleep——”
“And talk nonsense. Let me see your hand.” She took it imperiously, palm up, in her lap, and examined it critically, as if it were the paw of some animal. “My! it's as small as a woman's!” she exclaimed, in dismay. “Why, you could wear my glove, I believe.” There was one part disdain to three parts amusement, ridicule, in her throaty voice.
“It is small,” admitted Garrison, eyeing it ruefully. “I wish I had thought of asking mother to give me a bigger one. Is it a crime?”
“No; a calamity.” Her foot was going restlessly. “I like your eyes,” she said calmly, at length.
Garrison bowed. He was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. He had never met a girl like this. Nothing seemed sacred to her. She was as frank as the wind, or sun.
“You know,” she continued, her great eyes half-closed, “I was awfully anxious to see you when I heard you were coming home——”
“Why?”
She turned and faced him, her grey eyes opened wide. “Why? Isn't one always interested in one's future husband?”
It was Garrison who was confused. Something caught at his throat. He stammered, but words would not come. He laughed nervously.