Ida was not a bad girl, she was not notorious, but, confound it, it would look queer; and at the same time, while Ida was the kind of girl that one did not want to be seen with, she was not the kind of girl that could be told so.

In an upper box at the Tivoli it would have been different--one could keep in the background; but to appear on Kearney Street with a girl who wore a hat like that and who would not put on her gloves--ah, no, it was out of the question.
Ida was talking away endlessly about a kindergarten in which she had substituted the last week.
She told him about the funny little nigger girl, and about the games and songs and how they played birds and hopped around and cried, "Twit, twit," and the game of the butterflies visiting the flowers.

She even sang part of a song about the waves.
"Every little wave had its night-cap on; Its white-cap, night-cap, white-cap on." "It's more _fun_ than enough," she said.
"Say, Ida," interrupted Vandover at length, "I'm pretty hungry.

Can't we go somewhere and eat something?
I'd like a Welsh rabbit." "All right," she answered.

"Where do you want to go ?" "Well," replied Vandover, running over in his mind the places he might reach by unfrequented streets.