Was it time for the clinch yet? she wondered. No, there was still considerable pineapple pie on his mustache; and she decided to wait till he had finished his repast . . . at last it was all gone. Angie opened her eyes again.
“Now, little one,” said he, “come along with me. We are going to have one of those wonder jazz evenings you read about in the fifteen cent magazines.”
This was no news to little Angela, only, it wouldn’t be like one of those short stories, she had decided; it would be a regular he-and-she serial, as illustrated by an artist with-three-names.
She took his arm, together with everything between his hat and heels, including the Flor de 14th St. cigar that was slowly turning his green mustache violet. Come with him? You couldn’t have melted her off with an acetylene blast. She had grown on him like a wart or a bad habit, for richer, for poorer, for sale or for instance till death did them puncture.
******
The hall of the Grafolion Company was cold, so cold as to be well-nigh rectangular.
