"What were yuh pullin on the kid?"
"Just foraging."
Anger smouldered in her eyes, only to be diplomatically quenched.
"Did he fall?"
"Did your long-haired ancestor fall for Delilah?"
Now, strange as it may seem, Carlotta had been very careful with Master Phil and his pocket-book, choosing most inexpensive places for dining whenever he flitted down from New Haven. It really would have cut her tough little heart pretty deep, had he classed her as a "grafter" or "gold-digger," indifferent as she might be to the odium of these appellatives where fair game was concerned. When one had a "sweetheart"—why there was all the difference in the world.
"You oughtta lay off him, Mac." She sprang with some maternal quickening to the defense. "I've stood by you at cards an a lot of your phony schemes, but blackmailin' a girl's friends is diff'rent."
"Friends!" he retorted, "a girl hasn't any, they're always something else, more or less. So, easy on the love-stuff, Little One, or it might wreck the fair structure of our partnership."
The voice was raised not a half-note, but it held a master's reproof for Carlotta. Those cold, unflickering eyes could read the faintest lines on the plaid backs of cards across a wide table, and even her easy impudence faltered before them. She was subdued, or through discretion appeared so. She was also a little uneasy over something else.
