"Marky" surveyed Pinkie carefully.
"Why is it you are always so hard up, Pinkie?" he inquired. "You ought to be able to get a good engagement, but I say, there ain't much style about the way you dress. What I like is style—real flashy style—lots of color and ginger."
"I'm sorry I'm so poor," sobbed Pinkie, plaintively. "But I can't help it, Mr. Zinsheimer. You know the company stranded and I haven't had anything to do since. It's very kind of you to be so considerate, Mr. Zinsheimer. Would you mind if I call you 'Feathers'? That's what I always call you to Flossie."
"Well, if you call me 'Feathers,' I won't call you down," replied "Marky," laughing laboriously at his own joke. "But now I'll tell you what we'll do. Flossie's out and won't know anything about it, so let's you and me jump into a taxicab and go down to some of the shops. We can just make it before six o'clock, and I'll buy you a lot of fancy things. Eh, what?"
"Eh, what?" almost shouted Pinkie. "Do you mean it?"
"Do I mean it?" insisted "Marky." "Sure. I've got a taxi waiting outside. Will you come?"
Pinkie rose majestically to the occasion. Drying her eyes, and looking anxiously at the parlor clock for fear that it might already be time for Flossie to return before she could get into the taxicab, she grabbed her coat, without even waiting to get a hat, seized "Marky" by the arm and dragged him toward the hallway.
"Will I?" she repeated. "Watch me, kid."
"I'm sorry I'm so poor" sobbed Pinkie.