"Thirsty, eh?"
"No."
He regarded her over the rim of the smirchy bill of fare. "What are you, then, you little white-faced, big-eyed devil?"
"Charley, I—I got something to—to tell you. I—"
"Bring me a lamb stew and a beer, light. What'll you have, little white-face?"
"Some milk and—"
"She means with suds on, waiter."
"No—no; milk, I said—milk over toast. Milk toast—I gotta eat it. Why don't you lemme talk, Charley? I gotta tell you."
He was suddenly sober. "What's hurting you? One milk toast, waiter. Tell them in the kitchen the lady's teeth hurt her. What's up, Sweetness?" And he leaned across the table to imprint a fresh kiss on her lips.
"Don't—don't—don't! For Gawd's sake, don't!"