"I'll send and see if Bleema is ready yet. She's been out, taking Lester
Spencer in her new runabout her papa bought her. I wish you could see,
Mr. Feist, the way the traffic policemen smile after that girl the way
she handles a car. If I do say it, she's a picture."
"If you ask me, Mrs. Pelz, the finest of the objects in this room of fine things, it won't take me long to tell you," said Mr. Feist, leaning forward to lift for closer gaze the framed photograph.
"Now you're shouting, Feist!"
"That picture don't half do her justice. If I do say it, Mr. Feist—if that child had to make her living, she'd be a fortune in pictures. 'No, mamma,' she always says; 'God forbid if I have to make my living some day, I want to be a famous writer.' I want you to read sometime, Mr. Feist, some of that girl's poetry. I cry like a baby over the sad ones. And stories! There's one about a poor little girl who could look out of her window into the house of a rich girl and—"
"Feist, her mother just hates that child!"
"Say, old man, I don't see any medals on you for hating her."
"He's worse than I am, Mr. Feist; only, he hides it behind making fun of me. I always say if Bleema Pelz wanted the moon, her father would see to it that his property-man got the real one for her."
"You—you've got a beautiful, sweet little girl there, Pelz. I don't blame you."
"Feist, if I didn't know it, I'd be an ungrateful dog."
"Her papa can't realize, Mr. Feist, we haven't got a baby any more."