"Sense ain't what counts with the men nowadays; it's looks and—and speed like Gert's."
"Girls like Gert are all right, I tell you; but say, when it comes to real brains like yours—nobody home."
"Maybe not, but just the same it's the girls with sense get tired having the men rave about their smartness and pass on, to go rushing after a empty head completely smothered under yellow curls. That's how much real brains counts for with—with you men."
He flung her a gesture, his cigarette trailing a design in smoke. "Honest, madam, you got me wrong there. A fellow like me 'ain't got the nerve to—to go after a woman like you. A girl like Dodo or Gert is my size, but I'd be a swell dub trying to line up alongside of you, now wouldn't I?"
Tears that were distilled in her heart rose to her eyes, dimming them.
Her hand fluttered in among the plates and cups and saucers toward him.
"Phonzie, I—I—"
"You what?"
"I—I—Aw, nothing."
Her head fell suddenly forward in her arms, pushing the elaborate coiffure awry, and beneath the blue-checked apron her shoulders heaved.
He rose. "Madam! Why, madam, what—"