He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes.

"I'm awful," he said sadly. "I'm diff'runt. I don't know why I make
faux pas. 'Cause I don't care, I s'pose." Then, recklessly: "I been
smoking too much. I've got t'bacca heart."

Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and reeling
from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp.

"Oh, _Amory_, don't smoke. You'll stunt your _growth!_"

"I don't care," he persisted gloomily. "I gotta. I got the habit.
I've done a lot of things that if my fambly knew"--he hesitated, giving
her imagination time to picture dark horrors--"I went to the burlesque
show last week."

Myra was quite overcome. He turned the green eyes on her again. "You're
the only girl in town I like much," he exclaimed in a rush of sentiment.
"You're simpatico."

Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though vaguely
improper.

Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a sudden turn
she was jolted against him; their hands touched.

"You shouldn't smoke, Amory," she whispered. "Don't you know that?"

He shook his head.