"Glenn will kill--you," she panted.
"What fer?" he queried, in real or pretended surprise. "Aw, I know wimmin.
You'll never tell him."
"Yes, I will."
"Wal, mebbe. I reckon you're lyin', Pretty Eyes," he replied, with a grin.
"Anyhow, I'll take a chance."
"I tell you--he'll kill you," repeated Carley, backing away until her weak
knees came against the couch.
"What fer, I ask you?" he demanded.
"For this--this insult."
"Huh! I'd like to know who's insulted you. Can't a man take an invitation
to kiss an' hug a girl--without insultin' her?"
"Invitation! . . . Are you crazy?" queried Carley, bewildered.
"Nope, I'm not crazy, an' I shore said invitation . . . . I meant thet
white shimmy dress you wore the night of Flo's party. Thet's my invitation
to get a little fresh with you, Pretty Eyes!"
Carley could only stare at him. His words seemed to have some peculiar,
unanswerable power.
"Wal, if it wasn't an invitation, what was it?" he asked, with another step
that brought him within reach of her. He waited for her answer, which was
not forthcoming.
"Wal, you're gettin' kinda pale around the gills," he went on, derisively.
"I reckoned you was a real sport.
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