“I practised that walk for days and days. When I first put on this suit my brother hooted at the way I walked. He said no girl ever could learn to walk like a boy. I made up my mind I’d show him.”
“But your hair,” protested Dean, almost anxiously. Even if he was just now assuming the humble rôle of chauffeur he still was an ardent admirer of such hair as Jane’s, long, black and luxurious.
“Tucked up under my cap,” laughed the girl, “and for fear it might tumble down, I brought this along. It’s what the sailor boys call a ‘beanie,’ isn’t it?”
As she spoke she adjusted over her head a visorlike woolen cap that left only her face showing.
“But your mother—didn’t she wonder about your wearing those clothes?”
“She was in bed when I left. All she caught was just a glimpse of me in Dad’s dust coat, and that came to my ankles. I wore it until I was a block away from the house. Will I do?”
“You can’t change your eyes,” said Dean boldly, that is boldly for a chauffeur, but he knew that Jane knew he wasn’t a chauffeur except by choice, so that made it all right.
“I couldn’t well leave them behind. I understood that I was to have a lot of use for my eyes to-day.”
“Yes, indeed, you very likely will.”
“Do you know I hardly recognized you at first and was almost afraid to speak? I had expected to find you in a car. What was the idea of the motorcycle?”