with the cap brim. Awful bore, ain't it, specially right there on
Broadway with so many folks to hear?

"Very well," says I, languid. Then it's me lollin' back on the
limousine cushions and starin' haughty at the poor dubs we graze by as
they try to cross the street. Gee, but it's some different when you're
inside gazin' out, than when you're outside gawpin' in! And even if
you don't have the habit reg'lar, but are only there just for the time
bein', you're bound to get that chesty feelin' more or less. I always
do. About the third block I can look slant-eyed at the cheap skates
ridin' in hired taxis and curl the lip of scorn.

I've noticed, though, that when I work up feelin's like that there's
bound to be a bump comin' to me soon. But I wasn't lookin' for this
one until it landed. Martin pulls up at the curb, and I hops out,
rushes up the steps, and rings the bell.

"Little Miss Gladys ready?" says I to the maid.

She sort of humps her eyebrows and remarks that she'll see. With that
she waves me into the reception hall, and pretty soon comes back to
report that Miss Gladys will be down in a few minutes. She had the
real skirt notion of time, that maid. For more'n a solid half-hour I
squirms around on a chair wonderin' what could be happenin' up in the
nursery. Then all of a sudden a chatter of goodbys comes from the
upper hall, a maid trots down and hands me a suitcase, and then appears
this languishin' vision in the zippy French lid and the draped silk
wrap.

It's one of these dinky brimless affairs, with skyrocket trimmin' on