She flipped him a gesture. "Say, it's not my surprise party you're giving."
"It's not that, Gert, only I don't want to keep her waiting until she gets sore enough to have the edge taken off the surprise when it does come."
"Say, suit yourself. It's not my kid I'm going to wheel out to-morrow. I should worry."
"I'll do it."
"You're not doing me a favor. With my cold and my marcel, a three-hour walk ain't the one thing in life I'm craving."
"I'll roll it over the bridge and be home by twelve, easy. You take the
Subway, Gert; it's too big a trot for you."
"Nix! I don't start anything I can't finish."
She cocked her hat to a forward angle, so that the hen pheasant's tail swung rakishly over her face, took an Hellenic stride through the aisle of perambulators, flung her arms across her bosom in an attitude of extravaganza, then tossed off a military salute.
"Ready, march!"
"You're a peach, Gert."