“Beautiful!” exclaimed Belle. “What are those letters? Oh! B. P.? What do they stand for?”
“Guess!”
“I’m so dull,” said she, looking bright as a diamond. “Let me think! B. P.? British Poets, perhaps.”
“Try nearer home!”
“What are you likely to be thinking of that begins with B. P.? — O, I know! Boiler Plates!”
She looked at him, — innocent as a lamb. Bill looked at her, delighted with her little coquetry. A woman without coquetry is insipid as a rose without scent, as Champagne without bubbles, or as corned beef without mustard.
“It’s something I’m thinking of most of the time,” says he, “but I hope it’s softer than Boiler Plates. B. P. stands for Miss Isabella Purtett.”
“Oh!” says Belle, and she skated on in silence.
“You came down with Alonzo Ringdove?” Bill asked, suddenly, aware of another pang after a moment of peace.
“He came with me and his sisters,” she replied.
Yes; poor Ringdove had dressed himself in his shiniest black, put on his brightest patent-leather boots, with his new swan-necked skates newly strapped over them, and wore his new dove-colored overcoat with the long skirts, on purpose to be lovely in the eyes of Belle on this occasion. Alas, in vain!”
“Mr. Ringdove is a great friend of yours, isn’t he?”
