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 That was puttin' it up to the Kid cold turkey, but it didn't seem to bother him.

"Merely friendship, Désirée," he says smilin'ly. "I want to protect you while we are both in New York—as much as I consistently can."

From the way the expression changed on Désirée's face, a baby could see that she had looked for a much warmer statement than that. Désirée had been fairly raised on guys makin' desperate love to her—she's prob'ly been goalin' the sturdy menfolk since she throwed away her rattle for a powder puff—and here was a fellow she thought was a clam's earrings, yet he don't give her a tumble. Believe me, boys and girls. Désirée was plenty steamed!

"So you onlee weesh to be my fren'?" she says, curlin' her cherry lip. "Whal, don' bozzer yourself wiz me. I do not 'ave use for one private gendarme. I 'ave mon père for zat!"

"As you wish," bows the Kid calmly.

"Why you no fight zis Monsieur Olivaire?" persists Désirée, determined to start somethin'. "You are afraid for him?"

Kid Roberts flushes and his eyes glint, but he keeps his head. "I can see our little actress is developing temperament," he smiles. "You are evidently in a quarrelsome mood this evening, Désirée, so perhaps we had better postpone this discussion indefinitely. I do not wish to air my views on Jim Oliver and—"

"He has ask me to go out wiz him," butts in Désirée. "He pick me out from all ze girls in ze act—what of zat?"