Pausing, P. Sybarite met November's glare with eyes informed with an expression amazingly remote and dispassionate, and in a level and toneless voice addressed him.
"I've a message for you—a hurry call—won't keep—"
"Well?" snapped the gangster. "What's it about? Spit it out!"
"Why, Nella says—" P. Sybarite began deliberately; and paused to cough politely behind his hand; and leaned confidentially over the table.
At this juncture the boy pushed back his chair and rose.
"Pardon me, m' dear," he said thickly to the woman; "'m goin' home."
"Ah, sit down," November interrupted quickly, pitching his protean accents to a key of cajolery—"sit down and have another. What's your hurry?"
His eyes caught the woman's.
"That's right, dearie," she chimed in hurriedly, laying a soft detaining hand on the boy's forearm. "Be a good fellow. Stake me to just one more pint—"
"No," the boy insisted, shaking free—"I'm going home. Le' me alone."