"What ?" she asked, giving him her hand.
"You! You!" doffing his cap.

"It is a delight!" "I am sure--" she began.
"No! No!" He shook his curly mop warmly.

"It is not you.

See!" He turned to a Peterborough, for which McPherson had just mulcted him of thrice its value.

"The canoe! Is it not--not--what you Yankees call--a bute ?" "Oh, the canoe," she repeated, with a falling inflection of chagrin.
"No! No! Pardon!" He stamped angrily upon the ground.