"Come to supper with me, Blos? You been dodging me pretty steady here lately."
She clapped her hand to her brow, plastering a curl there.
"Migaw, I am now in the act of dropping thirty cents and ten cents tip into my Pig Bank. Will I go to supper with him? Say, darling, will the Hudson flow by Grant's monument to-night at twelve? On a Saturday matinée he asks me to supper with a question mark."
"Honest, Bloss, you'd hand a fellow a ha ha if he invited you to his funeral."
She sobered at that, leaning against the cold plastered wall, winding one of the shining curls about her fore finger.
"What's the matter—Hal?"
He handed her a torn newspaper sheet, blue penciled.
She took it but did not glance down.
"Drafted?"
"Yes," he said.