I knew that his-gray clothes were tweed because
every well regulated hero on a country road wears tweed.
It's almost a religion with them. He was not near enough
to make a glance at his features possible. I turned
around and continued my walk. The yellow cart, with its
impudent Schimmelpfennig leer, was disappearing in a
cloud of dust. Shades of the "Duchess" and Bertha M. Clay!
How does one greet a blond god in gray tweed on a country
road, when one has him!
The blond god solved the problem for me.
"Hi!" he called. I did not turn. There was a
moment's silence. Then there came a shrill, insistent
whistle, of the kind that is made by placing four fingers
between the teeth. It is a favorite with the gallery
gods. I would not have believed that gray tweed gods
stooped to it.
"Hi!" called the voice again, very near now.
"Lieber Gott! Never have I seen so proud a young woman!"
I whirled about to face Von Gerhard; a strangely
boyish and unprofessional looking Von Gerhard.
"Young man," I said severely, "have you been
a-follerin' of me?"
"For miles," groaned he, as we shook hands. You walk
like a grenadier. I am sent by the charming Norah to
tell you that you are to come home to mix the salad
dressing, for there is company for supper.
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