“Don’t you think I’m handsome then?” I asked mischievously.
“Not by a long shot. You are the most kissable—little—”
“Jimmy, behave yourself. Look at that policeman watching us, and don’t forget that waiter.”
“Oh, hang policemen and waiters,” growled Jimmy. “What the devil do they know about kisses?”
“When you want to kiss me, Jimmy Odell,” I said, “you’ll have to come without that whiskey odor on your breath.”
“Oh, all right-oh!” said Jimmy. “I guess there are others won’t mind it.”
“No, I guess not,” I sniffed. “Horses haven’t much smelling sense.”
XXXII
THERE was a rap on my door. I opened it, and there was Benevenuto. He had on a black suit. It looked like the suits the poor French Canadians dress their dead in. He had plastered his hair so sleekly that it shone like a piece of black satin, and oh! he did smell of barber’s soap and perfume. His big black eyes were shining and he was smiling all over his face.
“Where is your mandolin?” I asked.