I didn't feel like answering, I showed my independence by remaining
silent.

"What's the matter?" he demanded, impatiently. "Are you deaf? I say we
want to go to Bayport."

A newspaper joke which I had recently read came to my mind. "Very well,"
I said, "you have my permission."

It was a rude thing to say, and not even original. I don't attempt to
excuse it. In fact, I was sorry as soon as I had said it. It had its
effect. The young man turned red. Then he laughed aloud.

"Well, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "What have we here? A humorist, I do
believe! Mabel, we've discovered a genuine, rural humorist. Another
David Harum, by Jove! Look at him!"

The girl in the tonneau swept aside her veil and looked, as directed.
And I looked at her. The face that I saw was sweet and refined and
delicate, a beautiful young face, the face of a lady, born and bred. All
this I saw and realized at a glance; but what I was most conscious of at
the time was the look in the dark eyes as they surveyed me from head
to foot. Indifference was there, and contemptuous amusement; she
didn't even condescend to smile, much less speak. Under that look my
self-importance shrank until the yellow dog with which I had compared
myself loomed as large as an elephant. She might have looked that way at
some curious and rather ridiculous bug, just before calling a servant to
step on it.

The young man laughed again. "Isn't it a wonder, Mabel?" he asked. "The