"Comin', Hy—comin'."
"Della darlin'."
"Good night, Ysobel; lemme go, dearie—lemme go."
Then out through a labyrinth of stacked scenery, with her elbow in the cup of his hand, and the silver shimmering in the gloom.
"Gad, you will have that scrawny little hanger-on around and gettin' on my nerves! If I weren't always humorin' the daylights out of you she wouldn't spoil a ballet of mine for fifteen minutes, she—"
"It's darn little I ask out of you, but you gotta lemme have her—you gotta lemme have that much, or the whole blame show can—"
"Keep cool, there, Tragedy Queen, and watch your step! I don't want you limpin' in there to-night with a busted ankle on top of your long face."
They high-stepped through a dirty passageway stacked with stage bric-à-brac, out into a whiff of night air, across a pavement, and into a wine-colored limousine.
He climbed in after her, throwing open the great fur collar of his coat and lighting his cigar.
They plunged forward into the white flare of Broadway, and within her plate-glass inclosure she was like a doomed queen riding to her destiny.