“Aw, g’wan. Fade!”
Young Butternut stood nearby with his heart in his eyes. He was nodding joyfully and murmuring softly for her ear alone:
“’Attaboy!”
“I say, chappie, what are you cooing about?” finally demanded Miss Mayonnaise.
“Please, old thing, a word alone out on the balcony,” Butternut abjectly amplified.
“You’ve a jolly cheek,” retorted Verbeena lighting another cigarette. “And yet?” she suddenly arose and knocked the pleasing young man for a few feet with a merry clap on the ear. “I’ll take you on. I like you, Butternut. You remind me so much of your sister.”
She pulled out a guinea and started matching him as they passed from the ballroom and out upon the balcony under the ambient, silver light of the romantic moon which was, indeed, shining.
Two minutes later and from the direction of this same window out of which they had passed—you remember, harmlessly matching guineas—sounded a wild, prolonged and subtly syncopated ladylike screech.
A hush came over the crowded room. Regular ladies huddled fearsomely against shaky-kneed, cosmopolitan daredevils while craven waiters went out to see what the trouble was. Somebody tore the hotel doctor away from his absinthe drip and rushed him out too.
A solemn procession returned.