"That you, George?" Violet Prim demanded with vivacity.
Reluctantly he stopped and in a throaty monosyllable admitted his
identity.
"Well, how'd it go off?"
"Fine!"
"He fell for it?"
"All over himself. Honest, Vi, it was a scream to watch his eyes pop.
You could've clubbed 'em outa his bean without touchin' his beak. I
'most died."
Miss Prim giggled appreciatively.
"You're a wonder, George," she applauded. "It takes you to think 'em
out."
"Ah, I don't know," returned her admirer with becoming modesty.
"He's gone on her, all right, ain't he?"
"Crazy about her!"
"Think he'll make a play for her now?"
George demurred. Downright lying was all very well; he could manage
that with passable craft, especially when, as in this instance,
detection would be difficult; but prophecy was a little out of his
line. Though with misgivings, he resorted to unvarnished truth:
"You never can tell about P.S. He's a queer little gink."
Footsteps became audible on the stairs below.
"Well, so long. See you at dinner," George added in haste.
"George!"
"Well?" he asked, delaying with ill grace.
"What makes you sound so funny?"
"Laughin'!" protested George convincingly.
With determination and a heavy tread he went on to his room.
VI
SPRING TWILIGHT
When he had shaved (with particular care) and changed his linen
(trimming collar and cuffs to a degree of uncommon nicety) and resumed
his coat (brushing and hating it simultaneously and with equal
ferocity, for its very shabbiness) P.
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