Gladys was runnin’ on as confidential as if she’d known me all her life, interruptin’ the flow only when she makes a jab with the powder-puff and uses the eyebrow pencil.  And bein’ as how I’d been cast for a thinkin’ part I sneaks out the bag of gumdrops and tucks one into the off side of my face.  The move don’t escape her, though.

“Candy?” says she, sniffin’.

“Sorry I can’t offer you a cigarette,” says I, holdin’ out the bag.

“Humph!” says she.  “I have smoked them, though.  M-m-m-m!  Gumdrops!  You dear boy!”

Yes, Gladys and me had a real chummy time of it durin’ that hour’s drive, and I notice she put away her share of the candy just as enthusiastic as if she’d been a kid in short dresses.  As a matter of fact, she acts and talks like any gushy sixteen-year-old.  That’s about what she is, I discovers; though I wouldn’t have guessed it if she hadn’t let it out herself.

But, say, she’s some wise for her years, little Gladys is, or else she’s a good bluffer!  She had me holdin’ my breath more’n once, as she opens up various lines of chatter.  She’d seen all the ripe problem plays, was posted on the doin’s of the Reno colony, and read the Robert Chambers stuff as fast as it came out.

And all the time she talks she’s goin’ through target practice with her eyes, usin’ me as the mark.  A lively pair of lamps Gladys has too, the big, innocent, baby-blue kind that sort of opens up wide and kind of invites you to gaze into the depths until you get dizzy.  Them and the little, openin’ rosebud mouth makes a strong combination, and if it hadn’t been for the mural decorations I might have fallen hard for Gladys; but ever since I leaned up against a shiny letterbox once I’ve been shy of fresh paint.  So I proceeds to hand out the defensive josh.

“Roll ’em away, Sis,” says I, “roll ’em the other way!”

“Pooh!” says she.  “Can’t a person even look at you?”

“You’re only wastin’ ammunition,” says I.  “You can’t put any spell on me, you know.”

“Oh, really!” says she, rakin’ me with a quick broadside.  “Do you mean that you don’t like me at all?”

“Since you’ve called for it,” says I, “I’ll admit I ain’t strong for these spotlight color schemes, specially on kids.”

“Kids!” she sputters.  “I think you’re perfectly horrid, so there!”

“Stick to it,” says I.  “Makes me feel better satisfied with myself.”

“Redhead!” says she, runnin’ her tongue out.

“Yes, clear to the roots,” says I, “and the tint didn’t come out of a bottle, either.”

“I don’t care,” says she.  “All the girls do it.”

“Your bunch, maybe,” says I; “but there’s a few that don’t.”

“Old sticks, yes,” says she.  “I’m glad you like that kind.  You’re as bad as Mummah.”

“Is that the worst you can say of me?” says I.  “How that would please Mother!”

Oh, sure, quite a homelike little spat we had, passin’ the left handers back and forth—­and inside of five minutes she has made it all up again and is holdin’ out her hand for the last gumdrop.