“Anything I do in this town I’m not ashamed to do in broad daylight.”

“Maybe; but just the samey, I notice the joy rides out to Claxton don’t take place in broad daylight.  I notice that ‘tall, striking blonde’ and Charley Cox’s speed-party in the morning paper wasn’t exactly what you’d call a ‘daylight’ affair.”

“No, it wasn’t; it was—­my affair.”

“Say, if you think a girl like you can run with the black sheep of every rich family in town and make a noise like a million dollars with the horsy way she dresses, it ain’t my grave you’re digging.”

“Maybe if some of the girls in this store didn’t have time to nose so much, they’d know why I can make them all look like they was caught out in the rain and not pressed the next morning.  While they’re snooping in what don’t concern them I’m snipping.  Snipping over my last year’s black-and-white-checked jacket into this year’s cutaway.  If you girls had as much talent in your needle as you’ve got in your conversation, you might find yourselves somewheres.”

“Maybe what you call ‘somewheres’ is what lots of us would call ‘nowheres.’”

Miss Hassiebrock drew herself up and, from the suzerainty of sheer height, looked down upon Miss Beemis there, so brown and narrow beside the friendship-bracelet rack.

“I’ll have you know, Josie Beemis, that if every girl in this store watched her step like me, there’d be a darn sight less trouble in the world.”

“I know you don’t go beyond the life-line, Loo, but, gee! you—­you do swim out some!”

“Little Loo knows her own depth, all righty.”

“Not the way you’re cuttin’ up with Charley Cox.”

Miss Hassiebrock lowered her flaming face to scrutinize a tray of rhinestone bar pins.

“I’d like to see any girl in this store turn down a bid with Charley Cox.  I notice there are plenty of you go out to the Highland dances hoping to meet even his imitation.”

“The rich boys that hang around the Stag and out to the Highlands don’t get girls like us anywheres.”

“I don’t need them to get me anywhere.  It’s enough when a fellow takes me out that he can tuck me up in a six-cylinder and make me forget my stone-bruise.  Give me a fellow that smells of gasolene instead of bay rum every time.  Trolley-car Johnnies don’t mean nothing in my life.”

“You let John Simeon out of this conversation!”

“You let Charley Cox out!”

“Maybe he don’t smell like a cleaned white glove, but John means something by me that’s good.”

“Well, since you’re so darn smart, Josie Beemis, and since you got so much of the English language to spare, I’m going to tell you something.  Three nights in succession, and I can prove it by the crowd, Charley Cox has asked me to marry him.  Begged me last night out at Claxton Inn, with Jess Turner and all that bunch along, to let them roust out old man Gerber there in Claxton and get married in poetry.  Put that in your pipe and smoke it awhile, Josie; it may soothe your nerve.”