'I say, really. Thanks awfully!'
She eyed him in silence for a moment. Then she burst out:
'You say you don't like the bank?'
'I certainly don't.'
'And you'd like to strike some paying line of business?'
'Sure.'
'Then why don't you make your fortune by hiring yourself out to a museum as the biggest human clam in captivity? That's what you are. You sit there just saying 'Thanks,' and 'Bai Jawve, thanks awf'lly,' while a girl's telling you nice things about your eyes and hair, and you don't do a thing!'
Rutherford threw back his head and roared with laughter.
'I'm sorry!' he said. 'Slowness is our national failing, you know.'
'I believe you.'
'Tell me about yourself. You know all about me, by now. What do you do besides brightening up the dull evenings of poor devils of bank-clerks?'
'Give you three guesses.'
'Stage?'
'Gee! You're the human sleuth all right, all right! It's a home-run every time when you get your deductive theories unlimbered. Yes, George; the stage it is. I'm an actorine-one of the pony ballet in The Island of Girls at the Melody. Seen our show?'
'Not yet. I'll go-to-morrow.'
'Great! I'll let them know, so that they can have the awning out and the red carpet down. It's a cute little piece.'
'So I've heard.'
'Well, if I see you in front to-morrow, I'll give you half a smile, so that you shan't feel you haven't got your money's worth. Good night, George!'
'Good night, Peggy!'
She jumped down from the table. Her eye was caught by the photographs on the mantelpiece. She began to examine them.
'Who are these Willies?' she said, picking up a group.
'That is the football team of my old school. The lout with the sheepish smirk, holding the ball, is myself as I was before the cares of the world soured me.'
Her eye wandered along the mantelpiece, and she swooped down on a cabinet photograph of a girl.
'And who's this, George?' she cried.
He took the photograph from her, and replaced it, with a curious blend of shyness and defiance, in the very centre of the mantelpiece. For a moment he stood looking intently at it, his elbows resting on the imitation marble.
'Who is it?' asked Peggy. 'Wake up, George. Who's this?'
Rutherford started.
'Sorry,' he said. 'I was thinking about something.'
'I bet you were. You looked like it. Well, who is she?'
'Eh! Oh, that's a girl.'
Peggy laughed satirically.
'Thanks awf'lly, as you would say. I've got eyes, George.'
'I noticed that,' said Rutherford, smiling. 'Charming ones, too.'
'Gee! What would she say if she heard you talking like that!'
She came a step nearer, looking up at him. Their eyes met.
'She would say,' said Rutherford, slowly: ' 'I know you love me, and I know I can trust you, and I haven't the slightest objection to your telling Miss Norton the truth about her eyes. Miss Norton is a dear, good little sort, one of the best, in fact, and I hope you'll be great pals!' '
There was a silence.
'She'd say that, would she?' said Peggy, at last.
'She would.'
Peggy looked at the photograph, and back again at Rutherford.
'You're pretty fond of her, George, I guess, aren't you?'
'I am,' said Rutherford, quietly.
'George.'
