The frank eyes of the girl met his fairly. A patch of heightened color glowed in her soft cheeks. "That would have been better, Johnnie. But since you have introduced the subject, I'll tell you that Mr. Lindsay and I are friends. Neither of us has the slightest intention of being anything more. You may not understand such things."
"No'm," he admitted humbly. "I reckon I'm a plumb idjit."
His attitude was so dejected that she relented.
"You needn't feel badly, Johnnie. There's no harm done—if you don't say anything about it to Mr. Lindsay. But I don't think you were intended for a match-maker. That takes quite a little finesse, doesn't it?"
The word "finesse" was not in Johnnie's dictionary, but he acquiesced in her verdict.
"I reckon, ma'am, you're right."
CHAPTER XII
CLAY READS AN AD AND ANSWERS IT
Clay was waiting for lunch at a rôtisserie on Sixth Avenue, and in order to lose no time—of which he had more just now than he knew what to do with—was meanwhile reading a newspaper propped against a water-bottle. From the personal column there popped out at him three lines that caught his attention:
If this meets the eye of C. L. of Arizona please write me. Box M-21, The Herald. Am in trouble. KITTY M.