Stirring his tea, he appreciated the duchess. The agreeable picture she made impressed him mightily.
“Do you know,” he asked suddenly, “what you make me think of?”
“A box of candy. This room with its stuffed walls, and you in it are good enough—”
“To eat?” she laughed aloud. “Oh, you perfectly killing creature, what an idea!”
And as he met her eyes with his clear ones, with a simplicity she could never hope to reach, he put his tea-cup down; and as he did so the duchess observed his strong hands, their vigor, well-kept and muscular, but not the dandified hands of the man who goes often to the manicure.
“If it hadn’t been for one thing,” the boy went on, “I would have thought of nothing else but you, every minute I’ve been away.”
“No, the Gaiety girl, Letty Lane. You know I told you in the box that she was from my town.”
The young man, who had flown back to Osdene Park in answer to a telegram, began to take his companion into his confidence.
“I knew that girl,” Dan said, “when she wasn’t more than fourteen. She sold me soda-water over the drug store counter. I always thought she was bully, bright as a button and pretty as a peach. Once, I remember, I took six chocolate sodas in one day just to go in and see her. I had an awful time. I most died of that jag, and yet,” he said meditatively, “I don’t think I ever spoke three words to her, just said ‘sarsaparilla’ or ‘chocolate’ or whatever it might happen to be. Ever since that day, ever since that jag,” he said with feeling, “I couldn’t _see_ a stick of chocolate and keep my head up! Well,” went on the boy, “Sarah Towney sang in our church for a missionary meeting, and I was there. I can remember the song she sang.” He spoke with unconscious ardor. He didn’t refer to the hymn, however, but went on with his narrative. “She disappeared from Blairtown. I never had a peep at her again until the other night. Gosh!” he said fervently, “when I saw her there on the stage, why, I felt as though cold water was running up and down my spine.”
The duchess, as a rule, was amused by his slang. It seemed vulgar to her now.
“Heavens,” she drawled, “you are really too dreadful!”
“She’s turned out a perfect wonder, hasn’t she? A world-beater! Why, everybody tells me there isn’t another like her in her specialty. Of course I have heard of Letty Lane, but I haven’t been out to things since I went in mourning, and I’ve never run up against her.”