"Oh!" says she. "You are the young man who dances such constant
attendance on Verona, are you?"

"That's a swell way of puttin' it," says I. "And I suppose you're
the--er--"

"I am Miss Burr," says she. "Verona is my cousin."

"Well, well!" says I. "Think of that!"

"Please don't reflect on it too hard," says she, "if you find the fact
unpleasant."

"Why--er--" I begins, "I only meant--ah-- Don't let me crash in on your
readin', though."

Her thin lips flatten into a straight line--the best imitation of a smile
she can work up, I expect--and she turns down a leaf in her magazine.
Then she shifts sudden to another chair, where she has me under the
electrolier, facin' her, and I knows that I'm let in for something. I
could almost hear the clerk callin', "Hats off in the courtroom."

Odd, ain't it, how you can get sensations like that just from a look or
two? And with dimmers on them lamps of hers Myra wouldn't have scared
anybody. Course, her nose does have sort of a thin edge to it, and her
narrow mouth and pointed chin sort of hints at a barbed-wire disposition;
but nothing real dangerous.

Still, Myra ain't one you'd snuggle up to casual, or expect to do any