It was based upon some "trade-lasts" gleaned at dancing-school, to the effect that he was "awful good-looking and _English_, sort of." "Myra," he said, lowering his voice and choosing his words carefully, "I beg a thousand pardons.

Can you ever forgive me ?" She regarded him gravely, his intent green eyes, his mouth, that to her thirteen-year-old, arrow-collar taste was the quintessence of romance.
Yes, Myra could forgive him very easily.
"Why--yes--sure." He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes.

He had lashes.
"I'm awful," he said sadly.

"I'm diff'runt.

I don't know why I make faux pas.