"G'wan!" George coaxed. "Feed it to me: I'll eat it right outa your hand. Whatcha been doin' with yourself all night, P.S.?"
"I've been Day of Days-ing myself, George."
"Ah, can the kiddin', P.S. Come through! Whadja do?"
"Broke every Commandment in the Decalogue, George, barring one or two of the more indelicate ones; kicked the laws of chance and probability into a cocked hat; fractured most of the Municipal Ordinances—and—let me see—oh, yes!—dislocated the Long Arm of Coincidence so badly that all of its subsequent performances are going to seem stiff and lacking in that air of spontaneity without which—"
"My Gawd!" George despaired—"he's off again on that hardy annual talkalogue of his!... Lis'n, P.S.—"
"Call me Perceval," P. Sybarite suggested pleasantly.
"Wh-at!"
"Let it be Perceval hereafter, George—always. I grant you free permission."
"But I thought you said—"
"So I did—a few hours ago. Now I—well, I rather like it. It makes all the difference who calls you that sort of name first, and what her voice is like."