"Yep."
Silence.
A flush rose to Miss Clark's face, darkening it. She adjusted her dyed-fur tippet and a small imitation-fur cap at just the angle which doubled its face value. Something seemed to leap out from her eyes and then retreat behind a smile and a squint.
"Say, Min, if my voice hurt me like yours does, I'd rub salve on it," and went out, slamming the door behind her. But a tear lay on the edge of her down-curved lashes, threatening to ricochet down her smoothly powdered cheek. She winked it in again. The station swarm was close to her, jostling, kicking her ankles in passing, buffeting.
From out the swift tide a figure without an overcoat, and a cap vizor pulled well down over his eyes, locked her arm from the rear, so that she sprang about, releasing herself.
"For God's sake, Blink, cut the pussy-foot tread, will you? I've jabbed with a hat-pin for less than that."
"Merry Christmas, Marj."
"Yes, I'm merry as a crutch. What brought you around, Blink?"
"Can't a fellow drop around to pick you up?"
"Land that job?"