At the turn by the window, where potted posies stood, he encountered Rosalie Dysart in canoe costume--sleeves rolled up, hair loosened, becomingly tanned, and entirely captivating in her thoughtfully arranged disarray.
"Why, Duane!" she exclaimed, offering both her hands with that impulsively unstudied gesture she carefully cultivated for such occasions.
He took them; he always took what women offered.
"This is very jolly," he said, retaining the hands and examining her with unfeigned admiration.

"Tell me, Mrs.Dysart, are you by any fortunate chance as good as you are ornamental ?" "I heard you ask that of the maid around the corner," said Rosalie coolly.

"Don't let the bucolic go to your head, Mr.Mallett." And she disengaged her hands, crossed them behind her, and smiled back at him.
It was his punishment.

Her hands were very pretty hands, and well worth holding.
"That maid," he said gravely, "has excellent manners.

I merely complimented her upon them....