"Oh, my dear, my dear, I thought your love for the charming boy" (aside—"damn his fool hide—") "was pure and without alloy. You've destroyed an illusion, a beautiful illusion—that's what you've done—and by all that's holy and sacred, 'tis murder in the nth degree!"
"It was somethin' like what you say it is—without the grenadine, Mister Experience," (referring to a morality play popular that year) "'tleast it was until he giv' me the razz,' and no rube can give me the razz an' get away with it" She crooked back a full arm, toyed with her hair—the gesture models use to display the grace of a gown, then finished,—"Huh, me that could have anything on Broadway!"
He qualified the claim with some sarcasm, then reflected a while.
Without question the mooted enterprise was crude, "old stuff," altogether unworthy of his talents. But he was in straits. Things hadn't broken well at all for him lately. And the trip might prove diverting, satisfying his love of humour, local colour, and cash, at the expense of the provincials. Besides there was a raised check due to reach the clearing house in the morning. And he wasn't so sure about that check.
For the first time in his life he wondered if his hand had lost its cunning. Ordinarily he was as skilful with pothooks as with concealed aces. His cheirography had the hair-trigger nicety of his "stacking," or—so rumour had it—his ability to locate the mortal spot with a bullet, the proper crevice between enemy ribs with cold steel.
He hated bungling even in little things; never had to strike
