Helma grins.  “Mees Burr, she in bookrary, yes,” says she.

“Oh!” says I.  “The cousin?  That’ll be all the better.  Good chance for me to be gettin’ in right with her.  Tell her what to expect, Helma.”

That’s the sort of social plunger I am—­regular drawing-room daredevil, facin’ all comers, passin’ out the improvised stuff to strangers, and backin’ myself strong for any common indoor event.  That is, I was until about 8:13 that evenin’.  Then I got in range of them quick-firin’ dart throwers belongin’ to Miss Myra Burr.

Say, there’s some people that shouldn’t be allowed at large without blinders on.  Myra’s one.  Her eyes are the stabby kind, worse than long hatpins.  Honest, after one glance I felt like I was bein’ held up on a fork.

“Ouch!” says I, under my breath.  But she must have heard.

“I beg pardon,” says she.  “Did you say something?”

“Side remark to my elbow,” says I.  “Must have caught the decreasing as I came through.  Excuse it.”

“Oh!” says she.  “You are the young man who dances such constant attendance on Verona, are you?”

“That’s a swell way of puttin’ it,” says I.  “And I suppose you’re the—­er—­”

“I am Miss Burr,” says she.  “Verona is my cousin.”

“Well, well!” says I.  “Think of that!”

“Please don’t reflect on it too hard,” says she, “if you find the fact unpleasant.”

“Why—­er—­” I begins, “I only meant—­ah—­ Don’t let me crash in on your readin’, though.”

Her thin lips flatten into a straight line—­the best imitation of a smile she can work up, I expect—­and she turns down a leaf in her magazine.  Then she shifts sudden to another chair, where she has me under the electrolier, facin’ her, and I knows that I’m let in for something.  I could almost hear the clerk callin’, “Hats off in the courtroom.”

Odd, ain’t it, how you can get sensations like that just from a look or two?  And with dimmers on them lamps of hers Myra wouldn’t have scared anybody.  Course, her nose does have sort of a thin edge to it, and her narrow mouth and pointed chin sort of hints at a barbed-wire disposition; but nothing real dangerous.

Still, Myra ain’t one you’d snuggle up to casual, or expect to do any hand-holdin’ with.  She ain’t costumed for the part, for one thing.  No, hardly.  Her idea of an evenin’ gown seems to be to kick off her ridin’-boots and pin on a skirt.  She still sticks to the white neck-stock; and, the way her hair is parted in the middle and drawn back tight over her ears, she’s all fixed to weather a gale.  Yes, Myra has all the points of a plain, common-sense female party just taggin’ thirty-five good-by.

Not that I puts any of them comments on the record, or works ’em in as repartee.  Nothing like that.  I may look foolish, but there are times when I know enough not to rock the boat.  Besides, this was Myra’s turn at the bat; and, believe me, she’s no bush-leaguer.