"It's so much more cozy right here," I said. "I'll telephone. There's Brophy's, just round the corner, and they send in the loveliest things."
"Oh, they do! Well, tell 'em to begin sending."
I thought he'd follow me out in the hall to the 'phone, but he was having some trouble in pulling out his purse—to count out his money, I suppose. I got Central and asked for the number. Oh, yes, I knew it all right; I had called up that same number once, already, to-day. Brophy's? Why, Maggie Monahan, you ought to know there's no Brophy's. At least none that I ever heard about.
With my hand over the mouthpiece, so that nobody heard but Edward, I ordered a supper fit for a king—or a chorus girl! What didn't I order! Champagne, broiled lobster, crab meat, stuffed pimentoes, kirschkaffee—everything I'd ever heard Beryl Blackburn tell about.
"Say, say," interrupted Edward, coming out after me. "That's enough of that stuff. Tell him to send in a Scotch and soda and—what—"
For at that moment the connection was made and I cut in sweetly with:
"Mrs. Edward Ramsay?—just a minute."
Mag, you should have seen the man's face! It was red, it was white; it was furious, it was frightened.
I put my hand a moment over the mouthpiece and turned on him then. "I've got her on the 'phone at Mrs. Gates' house. Shall I tell your wife where you are, Edward? ... Just a moment, Mrs. Ramsay, hold the wire; some one wants to speak with you."
"You little devil!" His voice was thick with rage.