I said he must have changed.
“No,” said the girl, showing some spunk. “You don’t know him. You never saw him; but you are trying to be funny. Your name is Lon Hartigan, and I am dead onto you.”
“O, break!—break away!” said a chemical blonde, as she swept in from the kitchen, coming to the rescue of her “partner,” as she called her. “The girls from the Beebee put us onto you and that fellow from New York. You can’t come none of your monkey doodle business here. Mr. Ketchum is the nicest man ’at eats here and he always leaves a dollar under his plate.” And the drug-store blonde snapped her fingers under my nose, whirled on her heel, and banging a soiled towel into a barrel that stood by the door leading to the kitchen, she swept from the room.
“Will you bring me some hot coffee?” I said, softly, to the girl with her own hair.
“You misjudge me,” I began, as she set it down.
“I am sorry,” she replied with a hemi-smile that hinted of sympathy, but is worse than no sympathy.
“Now, see here,” I began, “I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me yours. My name is Warman.”
“My name is Boyd—Inez Boyd,” said the girl, “and I am sorry to have talked as I have, to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said I, as I left the room.