Pete bristled--as much as a fat man could bristle on so hot a
day. "Well, you said you wanted to flirt, and so I took it for
granted you'd like--"

Good Indian looked straight past the girl, and scowled at Pete.

"Pete, you're an idiot ordinarily, but when you try to be smart
you're absolutely insufferable. You're mentally incapable of
recognizing the line of demarcation between legitimate persiflage
and objectionable familiarity. An ignoramus of your particular
class ought to confine his repartee to unqualified affirmation or
the negative monosyllable." Whereupon he pulled his hat more
firmly upon his head, hunched his shoulders in disgust,
remembered his manners, and bowed to Miss Georgie Howard, and
stalked out, as straight of back as the Indian whose blanket he
brushed, and who may have been, for all he knew, a blood relative
of his.

"I guess that ought to hold you for a while, Pete," Miss Georgie
approved under her breath, and stared after Grant curiously.
"'You're mentally incapable of recognizing the line of
demarcation between legitimate persiflage and objectionable
familiarity.' I'll bet two bits you don't know what that means,
Pete; but it hits you off exactly. Who is this Mr. Imsen?"

She got no reply to that. Indeed, she did not wait for a reply.
Outside, things were happening--and, since Miss Georgie was dying
of dullness, she hailed the disturbance as a Heaven-sent
blessing, and ran to see what was going on.