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"
What
?
"
inquired
Myra
.
"
Nothing
.
I
was
just
yawning
.
Are
we
going
to
surely
catch
up
with
'em
before
they
get
there
?
"
He
was
encouraging
a
faint
hope
that
they
might
slip
into
the
Minnehaha
Club
and
meet
the
others
there
,
be
found
in
blasé
seclusion
before
the
fire
and
quite
regain
his
lost
attitude
.
"
Oh
,
sure
Mike
,
we
'll
catch
'em
all
right
--
let
's
hurry
.
"
He
became
conscious
of
his
stomach
.
As
they
stepped
into
the
machine
he
hurriedly
slapped
the
paint
of
diplomacy
over
a
rather
box-like
plan
he
had
conceived
.
It
was
based
upon
some
"
trade-lasts
"
gleaned
at
dancing-school
,
to
the
effect
that
he
was
"
awful
good-looking
and
English
,
sort
of
.
"
"
Myra
,
"
he
said
,
lowering
his
voice
and
choosing
his
words
carefully
,
"
I
beg
a
thousand
pardons
.
Can
you
ever
forgive
me
?
"
She
regarded
him
gravely
,
his
intent
green
eyes
,
his
mouth
,
that
to
her
thirteen-year-old
,
arrow-collar
taste
was
the
quintessence
of
romance
.
Yes
,
Myra
could
forgive
him
very
easily
.
"
Why
--
yes
--
sure
.
"
He
looked
at
her
again
,
and
then
dropped
his
eyes
.
He
had
lashes
.
"
I
'm
awful
,
"
he
said
sadly
.
"
I
'm
diff
'
runt
.
I
do
n't
know
why
I
make
faux
pas
.
'Cause
I
do
n't
care
,
I
s
'
pose
.
"
Then
,
recklessly
:
"
I
been
smoking
too
much
.
I
've
got
t
'
bacca
heart
.
"
Myra
pictured
an
all-night
tobacco
debauch
,
with
Amory
pale
and
reeling
from
the
effect
of
nicotined
lungs
.
She
gave
a
little
gasp
.
"
Oh
,
Amory
,
do
n't
smoke
.
You
'll
stunt
your
growth
!
"
