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Canfield, Dorothy, 1879-1958

"The Bent Twig"

"Get a move on and take one," he urged
cordially; "I pretend I buy 'em for the girls, but I'm crazy about 'em
myself," He bit into one with an air of prodigious gusto, took off his
hat, wiped his forehead, and looked at Sylvia with a relish as frank
as his enjoyment of the bonbon. "That's a corking hat you got on,"
he commented. "Most girls would look like the old Harry with that
dangling thing in their eyes, but _you_ can carry it off all right."
Sylvia's face assumed a provocative expression. "Did you ever make
that remark to any other girl, I wonder?" she said reflectively.
He laughed aloud, eyeing her with appreciation, and clapping another
large black chocolate into his mouth. "You're the prompt article,
aren't you?" he said. He hitched himself over and leaned towards her.
"Something tells me I'm goin' to have a good time at this house-party,
what?"
Sylvia stiffened. She did not like his sitting so close to her, she
detected now on his breath a faint odor of alcohol, and she was afraid
that Eleanor Hubert would think her lacking in dignity. She regretted
having succumbed to the temptation to answer him in his own tone; but,
under her bravado, she was really somewhat apprehensive about this
expedition, and she welcomed a diversion. Besides, the voluble young
man showed not the slightest sign of noting her attempt to rebuff him,
and she found quite unavailing all her efforts to change the current
of the talk, the loud, free-and-easy, personally admiring note of
which had the effect on her nerves of a draught of raw spirits.


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