After a month of Chicago Louie forgot the first lesson; had
more difficulty than I can tell you in reverencing a woman who only
said, "Aw, don't get fresh now!" when the other men put their arms
about her; and adhered to the third only after a struggle, in which
he had to do a small private washing in his own wash-bowl in the
evening.
Sophy called him a stiff. His gravely courteous treatment of
her made her vaguely uncomfortable. She was past mistress in the
art of parrying insults and banter, but she had no reply ready for
Louie's boyish air of deference. It angered her for some
unreasonable woman-reason.
There came a day when the V-cut dress brought them to open
battle. I think Sophy had appeared that morning minus the chain
and La Valliere. Frail and cheap as it was, it had been the only
barrier that separated Sophy from frank shamelessness. Louie's
outraged sense of propriety asserted itself.
"Sophy," he stammered, during a quiet half-hour, "I'll call
for you and take you to the nickel show to-night if you'll promise
not to wear that dress. What makes you wear that kind of a get-up,
anyway?"
"Dress?" queried Sophy, looking down at the shiny front
breadth of her frock. "Why? Don't you like it?"
"Like it! No!" blurted Louie.
"Don't yuh, rully! Deah me! Deah me! If I'd only knew that
this morning.
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