"Not so bad," he said. "The song ain't dead; the crowd is."
"Say, they can't hurt my feelin's. I been a chaser-act ever since I hit the town."
"Well, if I can sit and listen to a song in long skirts twelve runnin' weeks, three or four nights every one of 'em, take it from me, there's a whistle in it somewhere."
"Just the same," she said, pushing away her glass, "my future in this business is behind me."
He regarded her, slumped slightly in his chair, celluloid toothpick dangling. There was something square about his face, abetted by a parted-in-the-middle toupee of great craftsmanship, which revealed itself only in the jointure over the ears of its slightly lighter hair with the brown of his own. There was a monogram of silk on his shirt-sleeve, of gold on his bill-folder, and of diamonds on the black band across the slight rotundity of his waistcoat.
"Never you mind, I'm for you, girl," he said.
There was an undeniable taking-off of years in Miss de Long. Even the very texture of her seemed younger and the skin massaged to a new creaminess, the high coiffure blonder, the eyes quicker to dart.
"Lay off, candy kid," she said. "You're going to sugar."
"Have another fizz," he said, clicking his fingers for a waiter.
"Anything to please the bold, bad man," she said.