Little did he think, as he took his custard pie that he was about to put his foot in it. Yet he did.
“May I see you again sometime?” he said, ignoring the hat-check girl's ogling and the iceman's cold stare.
Warble made a face at him. It was one of her ways.
“What's your address?” he asked. “You can ask the Boss—if you really want to know.”
“Want to know! Say, you waitress!”
Of the love-making of Warble and Big Bill Petticoat there is nothing to be reported which may not be read in any Satevepost serial, which may not be heard at any summer resort, in any winter garden. They were zoology and history. Their speech was free silver and their silence was golden.
It was a non-stop courtship. All the plump beauty of youth and all the assured complacence of a well-to-do married man kept them up in the air.
Petticoat wasn't a married man, but he had their technique.
They took a walk, and followed a roundabout way. Then they sat on a bank, and his arm followed a roundabout way.
She seemed more young and tender than ever, in a simple white muslin frock and blue sash. Her broad-leafed hat was decked with a few pink roses, and roll-top white socks added a good deal to the picture.