Sally removed her collar with a wrench and a grunt: "Got a date?"
"Sure; with Sammy--four o'clock."
"Salamander stuff, eh?"
"What do you want--a day like this? I'm half-cooked already, and I guess I can go through a little fire for the sake of a sixty-cent table d' hôte and a trip to Coney. But you needn't worry; it'll be hotter than this before Sammy warms up enough to singe anything. His intentions are so praiseworthy they pain him; he blushes every time he has to recognise the sex question long enough to discuss the delights of monogamy in a two-family house within commuting distance of Prospect Park South."
"You don't mean to say you've got that far along--already!"
"That's the reward of a year's steady angling, honey."
"Heavens, but how you must carry on with Sammy!"
"Believe me, it's something scandalous," sighed Lucy Spode.
"But why--" Sally began in a tone of expostulation.
The other quickened with a flash of temper. "Don't ask me! I came No'th to study art and mingle with the world of intellect and fashion, and after three years I'm drawing heads for fashion magazines at a dollar per, and I know a minor poet who's acquainted with the assistant editor of The Scrap-Book, and the one man I know who owns a dress-suit gets fifty cents an hour for posing in it. If that isn't enough to make me welcome even the prospect of married life with Sammy Myerick and a woman to do the washing, I don't know--"