such short acquaintance, he called her by her botanical name. It wasn’t that something seemed to be stirring and moaning inside the coffin on which she sat. It wasn’t even that the undertaker was listening, as usual, for he wasn’t; he was drinking as usual—embalming fluid. No—“the Ritz”—it was something that often happened when she tried to think—a sudden rush of mud to the head.
“But what are rits?” she faltered. “Is it a breakfast food, or something like a Yonker?”
“Oh, take a taxi, and ask the engineer. Hurry!” and he had hung up before she could say Jack Dempsey. She hadn’t time even to think of saying it. It didn’t occur to her till hours afterwards.
She didn’t take a taxi, but a taxi took her to the hotel whose bills towered high over the adjacent roofs. There she paid the chauffeur—’twas all she had—a compliment. The poor girl could ill afford it, seriously ill; she had now but two left, and no more coming in till Saturday!
But she was going to meet a man! This time love’s guerdon would be hers! Angie
