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“I just love common workmen,” glowed Carol.

“Only you don't want to forget that common workmen don't think they're common!”

“You're right! I apologize!” Carol's brows lifted in the astonishment of emotion, in a glory of abasement. Her eyes mothered the world. Stewart Snyder peered at her. He rammed his large red fists into his pockets, he jerked them out, he resolutely got rid of them by clenching his hands behind him, and he stammered:

“I know. You get people. Most of these darn co-eds —— Say, Carol, you could do a lot for people.”

“Oh — oh well — you know — sympathy and everything — if you were — say you were a lawyer's wife. You'd understand his clients. I'm going to be a lawyer. I admit I fall down in sympathy sometimes. I get so dog-gone impatient with people that can't stand the gaff. You'd be good for a fellow that was too serious. Make him more — more — YOU know — sympathetic!”

His slightly pouting lips, his mastiff eyes, were begging her to beg him to go on. She fled from the steam-roller of his sentiment. She cried, “Oh, see those poor sheep — millions and millions of them.” She darted on.