William MacLeod Raine

“ He mentally catalogued his partner as being of the chorus-girl type, and pursued his game with the least possible attention to her compatible with the grave courtesy he affected toward women. Not being accustomed to so scant an interest on the part of those whom she honored with her company, Miss Marriott might have chosen to resent his complacent satisfaction with himself. She might, but did not; for-there was bubbling up in her an undercurrent of mirthful mischief. Since he had pigeon-holed her in his mind as of the chorus-girl order, it was only fair she should live up to his impression. ”

“ Miss Marriott chuckled, and then permitted herself a diplomatic prevarication. “So sorry. I’m afraid it was my fault.”
“It was,” he told her grimly.
“It must be very annoying.”
[Illustration: “Good heavens! you are not going to dance here?”]
He had nothing to say, but he said it so eloquently that she laughed. “Say it if you want to. I know just how you feel. Sometimes I’m that way myself, and I always like to put my feelings into vocabulary. Of course, I’m a perfect lady”—she giggled behind her hand, as a chorus girl night be supposed to do—“but sometimes one just can’t help exploding. ”

“ I’m going to get you interested in the stage.”
“I think not, Miss Marriott.”
“And some of its lights,” she persisted.
“Impossible!” He snapped it out with energy.
The mirth in her struggled for expression. “Don’t be afraid. I'll find you a pretty actress that will take those notions out of your head. A statesman has to have some fun, doesn’t he?”
“I think we’ll not discuss that, Miss Marriott,” he said stiffly.
“All right. Anything goes that you say. We'll talk about what interests you. Tell me about how you mean to be President. It is President you are going to be, isn’t it?” ”