Pausing only long enough to unload Jack on a neglected female sitting in the corner, she carried Bobo off. She was still gushing like the great geyser, and Bobo had nothing to do but fiddle in his waistcoat pockets, and incline a languid, attentive head, a part he played to perfection. Jack had no anxiety on his account. Whatever breaks he made, they would simply call him an "original." Was he not a hundred times a millionaire?
Jack discovered that his companion like many a neglected female was not without spice.
"A queer gang, isn't it?" was her opening remark.
"I don't know," said Jack, "haven't had a chance to give 'em the once over yet."
"You don't look as if you belonged," she said with a sharp look. "You look almost human."
"Oh, you're too discerning. How did you get here yourself?"
"I'm not human. A girl of my attractions can't afford it. I'm Sonia Kharkov."
"I wouldn't have thought it of you."
"Everything's Russian nowadays. I write poems about surgical operations. My last was entitled 'Appendectomy.'"
"How thrilling! Sorry I never read any."