How it begins
“I should love a long glass of iced German lager,” said Nanette. “Besides, I refuse to be deserted for a whole morning.” Her Japanese parasol lay along the rail of the veranda, her round bare elbows rested upon it and she cuddled her obstinate little chin in upturned palms. I turned to her with a glance in which I had meant to convey rebuke. But the blue eyes danced with mischief and pouting lips smiled impudently, a smile half childish and half elfin. “Young ladies of eighteen do not drink beer,” I answered paternally. “It isn’t done.” Jack Kelton came out as I spoke, saw Nanette, and flushed like a girl. When I say “like a girl” I mean like a girl of Victorian literature.
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