Part 21 (1/2)

”That's a swell way of puttin' it,” says I. ”And I suppose you're the--er--”

”I am Miss Burr,” says she. ”Verona is my cousin.”

”Well, well!” says I. ”Think of that!”

”Please don't reflect on it too hard,” says she, ”if you find the fact unpleasant.”

”Why--er--” I begins, ”I only meant--ah-- Don't let me crash in on your readin', though.”

Her thin lips flatten into a straight line--the best imitation of a smile she can work up, I expect--and she turns down a leaf in her magazine.

Then she s.h.i.+fts sudden to another chair, where she has me under the electrolier, facin' her, and I knows that I'm let in for something. I could almost hear the clerk callin', ”Hats off in the courtroom.”

Odd, ain't it, how you can get sensations like that just from a look or two? And with dimmers on them lamps of hers Myra wouldn't have scared anybody. Course, her nose does have sort of a thin edge to it, and her narrow mouth and pointed chin sort of hints at a barbed-wire disposition; but nothing real dangerous.

Still, Myra ain't one you'd snuggle up to casual, or expect to do any hand-holdin' with. She ain't costumed for the part, for one thing. No, hardly. Her idea of an evenin' gown seems to be to kick off her ridin'-boots and pin on a skirt. She still sticks to the white neck-stock; and, the way her hair is parted in the middle and drawn back tight over her ears, she's all fixed to weather a gale. Yes, Myra has all the points of a plain, common-sense female party just taggin'

thirty-five good-by.

Not that I puts any of them comments on the record, or works 'em in as repartee. Nothing like that. I may look foolish, but there are times when I know enough not to rock the boat. Besides, this was Myra's turn at the bat; and, believe me, she's no bush-leaguer.

”H-m-m-m!” says she, givin' me the up-and-down inventory. ”No wonder you're called Torchy. One seldom sees hair quite so vivid.”

”I know,” says I. ”No use tryin' to play it for old rose, is there? All I'm touchy about is havin' it called red.”

”For goodness' sake!” says she. ”What shade would you call it?”

”Why,” says I, ”I think it sounds more refined to speak of it as pink plus.”

But Myra seems to be josh-proof.

”That, I presume,” says she, ”is a specimen of what Aunt Cornelia refers to as your unquenchable impertinence.”

”Oh!” says I. ”If you've been gettin' Auntie's opinion of me--”

”I have,” says Myra; ”and, as a near relative of Verona's, I trust you'll pardon me if I seem a bit critical on my own part.”

”Don't mind me at all,” says I. ”You don't like the way I talk or the color of my hair. Go on.”

She ain't one to be led anywhere, though.

”I understand,” says Myra, ”that you come here two or three evenings a week.”

”That's about the schedule,” says I.

”And just why?” demands Myra.

”It's more or less of a secret,” says I; ”but there's always a chance, you know, of my havin' a cozy little fam'ly chat like this. And when that don't happen--well, then I can talk with Vee.”

Miss Burr's mouth puckers until it looks like a slit in a lemon.

”To be perfectly frank,” says she, ”I think it unutterably silly of Aunt Cornelia to allow it.”

”I can see where you're goin' to be a great help,” says I. ”Stayin' some time, are you?”