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"He may be no
more dreadful than she."
"I cannot hear you, Mr. Schmidt," she persisted, with unmistakeable
malice in her lovely eyes.
"I'm rather glad that you didn't," he confessed. "Silly remark, you
know."
"Well, I hope she doesn't marry him," said Miss Guile.
"So do I," said R. Schmidt, and their eyes met. After a moment, she
looked away, her first surrender to the mysterious something that lay
deep in his.
"It would prove that all American girls are not so black as they're
painted, wouldn't it?" she said, striving to regain the ground she
had lost by that momentary lapse.
"Pray do not overlook the fact that I am half American," he said.
"You must not expect me to say that they paint at all."
"Schmidt is a fine old American name," she mused, the mischief back
in her eyes.
"And so is Bedelia," said he.
"Will you pardon me, Mr. Schmidt, if I express surprise that you
speak English without the tiniest suggestion of an accent?"
"I will pardon you for everything and anything, Miss Guile," said he,
quite too distinctly.


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