"Has he ever done any good thing?" said she.
"Yes," I said; "Bud Phillips."
"Oh, I'm enjoying this so much! Who is the man with the fawn-like eyes and the long hair at that other table?" she whispered.
He was the night-watchman of the apartment house next door but I gave her an easy speech to the effect that he was Bill Beethoven, a grandson of old man Beethoven who wrote the wedding march and "Mah Rainbow Coon" and "Father Was a Gentleman When Mother Was Not Near" and several other gems.
She thought she was in Bohemia and having the time of her life, so I let her dream.
In the meantime Bud was busy trying to put out the fire in the well Ikey used for a neck.
Every time a waiter looked over at out table Bud's roll would blaze up.
Clara Jane concluded she'd broaden out a bit on Art and the Old Masters so she asked Ikey if he liked Rembrandt.
Ikey looked at her out of the corner of one eye and said, "Much 'bliged, but I'm up to here now!"
Then he went to sleep.