She leaned on her elbows across the table from him, smiling and twirling a great ring of black onyx round her small finger.
"Love me?"
"Br-r-r—to death!"
"Sure?"
"Sure. What'll you have, hon?"
"I don't care."
"Got any my special Gold Top on ice for me, George? Good. Shoot me a bottle and a special layout of hors-d'oeuvre. How's that, sweetness?"
"Yep."
"Poor little girl," he said, patting the black onyx, "with the bad old blues! I know what they are, honey; sometimes I get crazy with 'em myself."
Her lips trembled.