“Say, I bought a beauty of uh coat f’r my wiff yesterday,” he said. “She can’t say I ever hold out on her.”
“Well, isn’t that nice—she must be tickled to death,” said Blanche, giving him the flattering words that he wanted to hear. “Nobody ever slips me any swell coats.”
“Well, if they don’t it’s your fault,” he replied. “You could work a fellow f’r anything you wanted—you’ve got the goods, all right.”
“Aw, quit your kidding,” she said. “I wouldn’t take no prizes in a beauty show.”
“You would if I was one uh the judges,” he answered.
He poked her in the side, playfully, and she smiled carefully. You had to take such things from your boss—it was all in the game—but you wished that he would keep his hands to himself—the fat old lobster.
“Any time you wanna take a little ride in my machine, it’s there,” he said.
“Gee, I’d be afraid of you,” she retorted. “I think you’re some devil, you are.”
He chuckled at the praise of his masculine gifts, and walked back to the kitchen in response to a call. The cafeteria was located in a manufacturing and wholesale district where practically all of the trade occurred around the noon hour, and it closed its doors at 6 P.M. When Blanche returned to the apartment, Harry, Philip and Mabel were sitting at the supper-table (the father happened to be visiting one of his cronies uptown).
“Say, I met a guy to-day said he saw you at Dreamland las’ night,” said Philip, when Blanche came to the table.