and jams the whole of that fifty dollars' worth under her sash.
"There, how does that look, Mr. Torchy?" says she, takin' a few fancy
steps back and forth.

"All right, I guess," says I.

"Stupid!" says she, stampin' her double A-1 pump peevish. "Is that the
prettiest you can say it? Come, now--aren't they nice on me?"

"Nice don't cover it," says I. "I was only wonderin' whether orchids
was invented for you, or you for orchids."

This brings out a frilly little laugh, like jinglin' a string of silver
bells, and she shows both dimples. "That's better," says she. "Almost
as good as some of the things Bud Chandler can say. Dear old Bud!
He's such fun!"

"He was the gray-eyed one, wa'n't he?" says I.

"Why, yes," says she. "He was a dear. So was Oggie Holcomb. I wish
Nick would ask them both up."

"Eh?" says I. "The also rans? Here?"

"Pooh!" says she. "Why not? It's frightfully dull, being all alone.
But Nick won't do it, the old bear!"

Which reminds me that I ought to be scoutin' for black eyes, or wrist
bruises, or finger marks on her neck. Nothin' of the kind shows up,
though.