Was it a smear? It was--a smear plus. Tickled? Why, Old Hickory came
so near smilin' I was afraid that armor-plate face of his was goin' to
crack.
But say, don't tell the National Real Estaters' League about that
commission check he slipped me. I might lose my amateur standin'.
CHAPTER VIII
BREAKING ODD WITH MYRA
Next time I'll pay attention. For Vee must have mentioned how this
Cousin Myra of hers was comin'. Yes, I remember now. Said something
about her being an old-maid niece of Auntie's who was due to drift in
from Bermuda or California or somewhere, and that she might stay over a
few days.
But it was no solemn warning as it had a right to be. So, by the time I
gets this sudden hunch the other night about runnin' up for a little
unlisted chat with Vee, I must have forgotten. Not one of my regular
evenin's, you understand, nor any special date: I was just takin' a
chance. And when the maid tells me Miss Vee and Auntie have gone out for
an after-dinner stroll on the Drive, I chucks my new felt-rim straw on
the hall table and remarks careless that, as Auntie ain't likely to do
any Marathon before bedtime, I guess I'll wait.
Helma grins. "Mees Burr, she in bookrary, yes," says she.
"Oh!" says I.
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