"Danged whelp keeps poppin' up and spoilin' our innocent fun," the old lady said sullenly. "Does it just to aggravate us." She turned to one of her companions. "Shag me the bottle, Lana."
The lady in question produced a bottle of bourbon from the folds of her skirt. "Right-o, Rita," she said. "Blood in your eye!"
Marc shook his head sadly, but Toffee, huddled beside him in one of his topcoats, saw a certain charm in the sketch.
"Personally," she said, "I like to see folks growing old disgracefully. It makes the inevitability of age more attractive. After a lifetime of perfecting sins and vices you ought to be able to take them with you at least as far as the grave."
Passing by this bit of lopsided philosophy, Marc wheeled the car onto the sidewalk and skirted the field of play.
"The whole world's gone mad," he murmured.
It was a block later, at the sight of the Empire Department Store, that Toffee instructed Marc to stop the car.
"I want to pick up a few fine feathers," she explained. "I may want to take a flier later on."
"You won't need clothes," Marc informed her. "The office is most informal these days, especially since the staff has left."
"If I'm going to languish," Toffee said, "I'm going to do it in silks and satins. Besides, if you don't stop I'll darned well cripple you with my jewelry."