"I believe it's mine," retorted one of the two players, indignantly rising to her feet and starting toward the door.
"And mine," responded the other, following suit. At the door the twain paused and called to the other occupant of the room: "We are going for a walk, Mabel. Won't you come?"
Mabel picked up her book and moved toward the irate checker-players who had been so summarily routed.
"I don't like that cigar," she declared, stopping and turning to Zinsheimer.
"Well, then, try one of these," responded the irrepressible "Marky," offering several long perfectos from a leather case. He was answered only by a snort of indignation, and the next moment the smiling and courteous Mr. Zinsheimer, alone on the field of battle, settled himself in the most comfortable of the vacated chairs.
But "Marky's" serenity was to be short-lived. There was a rattle of chatelaine chains, a vague and indistinct odor of some unrecognizable but vivid perfume, the rustle of silken skirts, a cry of glad surprise, and Miss Flossie Forsythe, engaging, attractive, youthful and magnetic, settled herself on the arm of his rocking-chair as though entitled to rest there by the law of eminent domain.
"Marky," she cried, "I've been looking for you everywhere! Who ever would have thought of finding you in the sun parlor?"
Mr. Zinsheimer coughed uneasily.
"Yes, that's just what I thought," he stammered. "You see," he added, "I noticed you talking to that swell chap Gordon in the lobby, and I didn't like it."
Flossie patted his cheek playfully, in spite of "Marky's" efforts to elude her, and said joyfully: