"Deluding devilette!" breathed The Author, "get thee behind me!"
That evening was the first time I had ever heard myself called
"pretty." I was used to "businesslike" and "efficient" and
"trustworthy"--all excellent terms, in their way, but not such happy
things, any one of them, as "pretty."
"What are you thinking of, Sophy?" asked The Author. "Something over
the hills and far away? Because you look as Maude Adams used to look
when she first played 'Peter Pan.'"
I hoped it might be true, because--
I looked up then and met Mr. Nicholas Jelnik's dark eyes. They were
falcon eyes, but now there was something in them that made me, to my
rage and confusion and chagrin, blush like a silly school-girl. When
I again ventured to glance in his direction he was patiently and
politely listening to a white-goateed, game-legged U.C.V. refight
the Civil War with so fiery a zest that he presently caught another
veteran a resounding crack on the funny-bone with the gold-headed
stick he was flourishing. Both gentlemen half rose, the one making
wry faces and rubbing his elbow, the other bowing and apologetic.
"Pahdon me, Majah! My deah suh, pahdon me! But I was just tellin'
this boy about the day in the Wilderness his grandfathah Hynds took
a Yankee bullet out of my leg with a paih of silvah scissahs and
bandaged it with the tail of his shirt.
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