"How do you like 'em?" he demanded, his impudent eyes twinkling.
"If you're any sample, they seem to have a crust," witheringly.
"So does any good thing," he chuckled. "Don't you like pie?"
She laughed in spite of herself. "Say," she acknowledged, turning her charming face toward his freckled one with decided interest, "you ain't so worse! I almost wish I had a dance for you."
"Maybe one of 'em will die," said Micky hopefully. "If I can be of any help—"
"The music's starting," she interrupted. "It's a two-step and I've got it with Billy Ryan. He's rotten on that. Are you?"
"I'm probably the ripest peach of a two-stepper," averred Micky, "that ever triangled down a floor. I'm a pippin. Where is your gazabe?"
"I don't know," she replied, looking about frowningly. "Maybe he won't come." Micky waxed complacent at the discreet hope lingering in her tone.
The dance was well under way. Dick shuffled past, the big blonde in his arms. He seemed enjoying himself. Micky grew impatient.
"Went out for another drink, I guess," remarked Miss Maisie disgustedly, in another moment. "Come on, I sha'n't wait for him," and she rose.