"Good!"

He fitted on his hat carefully and snapped his gloves across his palm.
"Well, I'm off, madam."

She adjusted her hat in a simulation of indifference. "Like to come up
to the flat for supper and--and go over the books, Phonzie?"

"Huh?"

"There's plenty for two and--and we could kind of go over things."

He twirled his cane. "Oh, I--I'm running up there too often, sponging
off you."

"Sponging! Like I'd ask you if I didn't want you!"

"I been up there sponging off you three times this week. Anyways, I'm--"

"Don't I always just give you pot luck?"

"Yes, but you'll think afterwhile that I got you mixed up with my
meal-ticket."

A sensitive seepage of blood rushed over Madam Moores's nervous face,
stinging it. "Of course, if you won't want to come!"

"Don't want to come! A fellow that's never had a snap like your cozy
corner in his life--"