"Who's that man over there, just come in, with The Kitten?"
Flop glared at this interest on the part of his newest inspiration.
"Franklin Herrick, alias Boy Blue. He used to be the real thing, but he hasn't been round for ages."
The girl still stared. "I'd like to model him," she said slowly. "He walks like a panther, has the forehead of a saint and the mouth of a gutter rat."
"Great! Why don't you tell him? He'd be furious inside and look as if he were going to kiss you."
"Maybe I will—if I get a chance."
"You won't. The Kitten's been sharpening her claws for months."
On the couch Herrick was holding The Kitten's hands, stroking them softly.
"Who's the other woman?"
Flop's laugh bellowed above the noise. "You female Conan Doyle." His voice dropped. "A serious impossibility—bromide to the limit—but she has a good skin."