"Maybe he's a bashful castinette player," Toffee suggested uncertainly.
"I don't think so," Marc answered gravely. "I think it's the liquor. If I start to order again, stuff your napkin down my throat."
They both had become so engrossed in the phenomenon of the adjoining table, that neither of them noticed the approaching Miss Marlow. That the murderess of innocent songs was full blown, was unmistakable even at the distance of the microphone, but close up, she looked like something that should be turned on side, and hung over a bar.
"You Mr. Pillsworth?" she asked lazily. "One of the boys says you want to talk to me."
"That's right," Marc said, looking up. "Please sit down." He gestured toward Toffee. "This is Miss—uh—Miss——"
"Don't embarrass yourself Mr. Pillsworth," cut in Ruby, turning an appraising eye on Toffee. "I know the type. They don't come with names—just sizes." She smiled maliciously. "And what's yours in mink coats, dear?"
Toffee's answering gaze dwelt indolently on Miss Marlow's expanding hips. "About five smaller than yours in girdles, hon," she said sweetly.
With all the callousness of the seasoned warrior, Ruby accepted this retort, and eased the objects that had inspired it into a vacant chair. She leaned forward and smiled at Marc.
"What can I do for you?" she asked coyly.
"I like your singing," Marc lied with apparent irrelevance.