"Unfortunate young woman!" he murmured to his water-glass. "No wonder
she sits in public with that pudgy son of a chrysanthemum, when she
isn't even able to recognize a greaser at a glance. Oh, Lord!"

"You're not a greaser," she challenged.

"No?" he bantered. "You ought to see me squatting under an avocado
tree, singing the 'Spanish Cavalier' to a guitar accompaniment.
Listen: I'll prove it without the accompaniment." And he hummed
softly:

"The Spanish cavalier,
Went out to rope a steer,
Along with his paper cigar-o,
'_Car-ramba_!' says he.
'_Mañana_ you will be
_Mucho bueno carne par mio_!'"

Her brown eyes danced.

"That doesn't prove anything except that you're an incorrigible Celt.
When you stooped down to kiss the stone at Blarney Castle, you lost
your balance and fell in the well. And you've dripped blarney ever
since."

"Oh, not that bad, really! I'm a very serious person ordinarily. That
little forget-me-not of language is a heritage of my childhood. Mother
taught me to pray in Spanish, and I learned that language first.
Later, my grandfather taught me to swear in English with an Irish
accent, and I've been fearfully balled up ever since. It's very