“Old Grimsby's picked a live one, this time!”—“What show is she with?”—“Won't Pinkie be sore?” The criminologist was not left to wonder as to the identity of “Pinkie,” for an older man, walking behind a red-headed girl in a luridly modern gown, approached the table with the absent guest. The men were talking earnestly, the girl staring angrily at Shirley's, beautiful companion.
“Hey, here come's Reggie! Sit down, Reg. Pop has passed away, but his credit is still strong.”
“There's Pinkie—come, my dear, and join the Ladies' Aid Society and have a lemonade,” jested another youth, making a place for the girl in the aisle.
Pinkie's dark-haired companion sank somewhat unsteadily into a chair next the girl. He frowned and rubbed his forehead, as though to clear his mind for needed concentration. He shook Shirley's arm, and spoke sharply.
“Look up; Grimmie. I never saw you feel your wine so early in the afternoon. It was a lucky day for me on Wall Street, so I celebrated myself. You are here earlier than usual. Everybody have some champagne with me.”
As he beckoned to the waiter, the red-haired girl bestowed a murderous look upon Helene, who was sniffing some flowers which she had drawn from the vase on the table.
“Who's that Jane?” she demanded, her voice-shaking with jealousy. “Grimmie, you act as if you were doped. Introduce us to your swell friend. Wake him, Reg Warren.”
Helene's jeweled white hand protected the safety-first dozing of her companion, as, through the interstices of his fingers, he studied the inscrutable difference between the face of Warren and the other youths about them.
“Let Pop dream of a new way to make a million!” laughed one young man. “His money grows while he sleeps.”
“Yes, let him dream on,” laughed Helene, with a shrill giggle. “When he makes that extra million he can star me on Broadway, in my own show. He, he!”