This greeting, drawled with an inimitable vocal caress in every syllable, close in her ear, caused Edna to give a startled little jump. A smooth-faced, moon-faced young man was smiling at her good-naturedly. His “make-up” was plainly that of the stock tramp of the stage, though the inevitable whiskers were lacking.
“Oh, it don’t take a minute to slap’m on,” he explained, divining the search in her eyes and waving in his hand the adornment in question. “They make a feller sweat,” he explained further. And then, “What’s yer turn?”
“Soprano—sentimental,” she answered, trying to be offhand and at ease.
“Whata you doin’ it for?” he demanded directly.
“For fun; what else?” she countered.
“I just sized you up for that as soon as I put eyes on you. You ain’t graftin’ for a paper, are you?”
“I never met but one editor in my life,” she replied evasively, “and I, he—well, we didn’t get on very well together.”
“Hittin’ ‘m for a job?”
Edna nodded carelessly, though inwardly anxious and cudgelling her brains for something to turn the conversation.
“What’d he say?”