"Honest, am I, Joe?"
"Surest thing! The stage-door is my pace, and for nothing short of head-liners, neither. I gotta like a girl pretty well to hang round on the wrong side of the footlights for her, sweetness."
"Joe, I—I wish I knew if you was kiddin'."
"Kiddin' nothin'!"
They emerged into the white shower from a score of arc-lights; and Mr. Joe Ullman, an apotheosis of a classy-clothes tailor's dearest dream, in his brown suit, brown-bordered silk handkerchief nicely apparent, brown derby hat and tan-top shoes, turned his bulldog toes and fox-terrier eyes to the north, where against a fulvous sky the Palais du Danse spelled itself in ruby and emerald incandescents with the carefully planned effect of green moonlight floating in a mist of blood.
"Joe"—she dragged gently at his coat-sleeve, and a warm pink spread out from under the area of rouge—"Joe, you know what you promised for to-night?"
"What, kiddo? The sky's my limit. I'll taxi you till the meter gives out. I'll buy you—"
"You have promised so long, Joe. Come on! Let's go up home to-night. Be a sport, and let's go. Ma's got a midnight supper waitin', and—"
"The doctor says home cookin's bad for me, sweetness."
He cocked his hat slightly askew, stroked a chin as blue as a priest's, and winked down at her.