"One thousand and one Caucasian beauties, the pride of every State, the only girls who ever loved me. Look at 'em!"
He distributed a score of photographs, mustering them on the mantelpiece, pinning them to the already suspended flags, massing them in circles, ranging them in crosses and ascending files, and announced:
"Finest I could gather in. Only know a third of 'em, but the sisters know the rest. Isn't it a beauty parlor? Why, it'll make that blond warbler Stone, downstairs, feel like an amateur canary." Suddenly aware of Stover's opposite mood, he stopped. "What the deuce is the matter?"
"Nothing."
"You look solemn as an owl."
"I didn't know it."
"Well, how did you like Le Baron?"
"He's a corker!" said Stover militantly.
"I've been arranging about an eating-joint."
"You have?"