“They charge extra,” she reminded him.
Toomey was already at the telephone.
“Whole ones? Certainly—and Floridas—be particular. Eggs—soft to medium. Toast for two, without butter. And coffee? Of course, coffee. Send a paper with it, will you?”
As he hung up the receiver, “This is our last breakfast on earth, Old Dear—we’re going home to-morrow.”
Mr. Toomey repaired to the adjoining bathroom with its immaculate porcelain and tiling, where he inspected his chin critically in the shaving mirror and commented upon the rapid growth of his beard, which he declared became tropical in a temperate climate.
“Just to be warm and not have to carry ashes—it’s heavenly!” ecstatically sighed Mrs. Toomey.
“Forget it!” laconically. “What makes ’em so slow with that order?” Mr. Toomey lighted a gold-tipped cigarette and paced the floor impatiently.
Mrs. Toomey could not entirely rid herself of the notion that she was dreaming. A lace petticoat hanging over the back of a chair and a brocaded pink corset over another contributed to the illusion. She could not yet believe they were hers, any more than was the twenty-dollar creation in the hat box on the shelf in the closet.
During their week’s stay in Chicago Mrs. Toomey had gone about mostly in a state which resembled the delightful languor of hasheesh, untroubled, irresponsible, save when something reminded her that after Chicago—the cataclysm. Yet she had not yielded easily to Toomey’s importunities. It had required all his powers of persuasion to overcome her scruples, her ingrained thrift and natural prudence.
“We need the change; we’ve lived too long in a high altitude, and we’re nervous wrecks, both of us,” he had argued. “We should get in touch with things and the right kind of people. A trip like this is an investment—that’s the way you want to look at it. If you want to win anything in this world you’ve got to take chances. It’s the plungers, not the plodders, who make big winnings. I gotta hunch that I’m going to get in touch with somebody that’ll take an interest in me.”