"You're all right, little Peaches and Cream."
"You—you're all right, too, Joe."
"You mean that, sweetness?"
"I mean it if you mean it."
"Do I mean it! Say, do I give a little queen like you my company eight nights out of seven for the fun of kiddin' myself along?"
"I know you ain't, Joe; that's what I keep tellin' ma."
"Sittin' there screwing your lips at me like that! You got a mouth just like—just like red fruit, like a cherry that would bust all over the place if a bird took a peck at it."
Her bosom, little as Juliet's, rose to his words, and she giggled after the immemorial fashion of women.
"Oh, Joe! If only—if only—if only—"
"If only what, sweetness?"