Herbert protested to heaven.  “Why, I wouldn’t take a walk with you if every policeman in this town tried to make me!  I wouldn’t take a walk with you if they brought a million horses and—­”

“I wouldn’t take a walk with you,” Florence interrupted, “if they brought a million million horses and cows and camels and—­”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Herbert said.  “Not if I could help it!”

But by this time Florence had regained her derisive superciliousness.  “There’s a few things you could help,” she said; and the incautious Herbert challenged her with the inquiry she desired.

“What could I help?”

“I should think you could help bumpin’ into me every second when I’m takin’ a walk on my own affairs, and walk along on your own side of the sidewalk, anyway, and not be so awkward a person has to keep trippin’ over you about every time I try to take a step!”

Herbert withdrew temporarily to his own side of the pavement.  “Who?” he demanded hotly. “Who says I’m awkward?”

“All the fam’ly,” Miss Atwater returned, with a light but infuriating laugh.  “You bump into ’em sideways and keep gettin’ half in front of ’em whenever they try to take a step, and then when it looks as if they’d pretty near fall over you—­”

“You look here!”

“And besides all that,” Florence went on, undisturbed, “why, you generally keep kind of snorting, or somep’n, and then making all those noises in your neck.  You were doin’ it at grandpa’s last Sunday dinner because every time there wasn’t anybody talking, why, everybody could hear you plain as everything, and you ought to’ve seen grandpa look at you!  He looked as if you’d set him crazy if you didn’t quit that chuttering and cluckling!”

Herbert’s expression partook of a furious astonishment.  “I don’t any such thing!” he burst out.  “I guess I wouldn’t talk much about last Sunday dinner, if I was you neither.  Who got caught eatin’ off the ice cream freezer spoon out on the back porch, if you please?  Yes, and I guess you better study a little grammar, while you’re about it.  There’s no such words in the English language as ‘cluckling’ and ‘chuttering.’”

“I don’t care what language they’re in,” the stubborn Florence insisted.  “It’s what you do, just the same:  cluckling and chuttering!”

Herbert’s manners went to pieces.  “Oh, dry up!” he bellowed.

“That’s a nice way to talk!  So gentlemanly——­”

“Well, you try be a lady, then!”

“‘Try!’” Florence echoed.  “Well, after that, I’ll just politely thank you to dry up, yourself, Mister Herbert Atwater!”

At this Herbert became moody.  “Oh, pfuff!” he said; and for some moments walked in silence.  Then he asked:  “Where you goin’, Florence?”

The damsel paused at a gate opening upon a broad lawn evenly divided by a brick walk that led to the white-painted wooden veranda of an ample and honest old brick house.  “Righ’ there to grandpa’s, since you haf to know!” she said.  “And thank you for your delightful comp’ny which I never asked for, if you care to hear the truth for once in your life!”