We can do without an escort,
we two."
"Capital!" said Jessie, clapping her hands. "We'll show them--"
"We'll show them nothing," interrupted Christie decidedly. "In our place
there's only the one thing to do. Where is this--Whiskey Dick?"
"In the parlor."
"The parlor!" echoed Christie. "Whiskey Dick? What--is he--"
"Yes; he's all right," said Jessie confidently. "He's been here before,
but he stayed in the hall; he was so shy. I don't think you saw him."
"I should think not--Whiskey Dick!"
"Oh, you can call him Mr. Hall, if you like," said Jessie, laughing.
"His real name is Dick Hall. If you want to be funny, you can say Alky
Hall, as the others do."
Christie's only reply to this levity was a look of superior resignation
as she crossed the hall and entered the parlor.
Then ensued one of those surprising, mystifying, and utterly
inexplicable changes that leave the masculine being so helpless in the
hands of his feminine master. Before Christie opened the door her face
underwent a rapid transformation: the gentle glow of a refined woman's
welcome suddenly beamed in her interested eyes; the impulsive courtesy
of an expectant hostess eagerly seizing a long-looked-for opportunity
broke in a smile upon her lips as she swept across the room, and stopped
with her two white outstretched hands before Whiskey Dick.
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