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.
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