Devlin hiccupped:
“Sittin’ on my—mistress’s—doorstep.”
“Why?”
“To cool the ferment of my imagination,” said the barber sadly.
Noll laughed:
“What’s the matter with your imagination?” he asked. “It looks all right.”
“It’s torrid——”
“Oho!”
His pale face nodded:
“Quite so—quite damned torrid,” said the hairdresser, and hiccupped fearsomely. “It ferments.”