“That won’t make any difference, of course,” Nielsen ventured in provoking tones.
“Go on! Clear out of here!” Breen repeated.
“You painters!” sang Nielsen, as he backed toward the door.
“We’re no worse than you fellows are,” Breen retorted. “Besides, this afternoon is no more and no less than an experiment in line with the contract of our triumvirate. Your inning will come, especially as you are writing a story, for which purpose—”
“I know,” Nielsen admitted with cheerful slyness. “And I really need Erna to help me with it.”
“And Carstairs will have to contribute his share of the contract, unless he persists in that ‘count me out’ air of his.”
“Oh, he’ll come around, in his own way,” was Nielsen’s confident assurance. “I saw him this morning, by the way—the first time I’ve seen him at Landsmann’s in several days.”
“How is he?”
“Unusually cheery and affable.”
“He’ll recover from that foolishness.”