"No? Goin' to go it by your lonely?"
She nodded, her little jaw squared.
"All right." He grinned audaciously. "I 'll hold your hand, this trip."
"How d' you know I 'll let you?"
"Oh, you know a good thing when you see it."
"You 're kind o' pop'lar with yourself, ain't you?"
"Well, I 'm the hit o' the season. Where 're you goin' to sit?" They stood beside a pile of boxes that held "liquid refreshments" in their racks. There was not a chair vacant. "Here," he said, lifting down a box, "they won't need all these till I start drinkin'. Make yourself at home."
He sat her down, with her back against the pile of boxes. "Gee!" he said, sitting beside her, "you 're a swell dresser fer a picnic. You look as if you 'd been done by one o' those Sixt' Avenue windah-riggers."
She accepted this admiration as the beginning of her revenge on the elder brother. "D' you like it?" she asked, flicking down the ruffles on her bosom.
"Sure I like it—all but those finger mufflers." He referred to her gloves.
"What 's the matter with them?" She spread her hands in her lap.
"They 're in the way. I 'd as soon hold a canvas ham. Ain't they hot?"
She nodded. "Kind o'." She took one off, in a manner that pretended to be innocently curious on the subject, and turned her hand over on her knee, studying it.
