Flick Wilder was stretched on his back on the shadowy couch, hands under his head, legs crossed, and one foot pointed toward the skylight, against which the reflections of the opposite hotel cast a blurred glamour.
“Hello; you here?” said Tootles, in surprise.
“Mostly.”
“Sober?”
“Alas!”
“What are you mooning there on your back for?” said Tootles, turning on the pink and yellow lights.
“I’m laughing over a new joke,” said Wilder, in anything but an hilarious tone.
“Good Lord, Flick,” said Tootles, stopping short: “don’t tell me you are in the glums, too?”
“Who’re you talking to?” said Wilder, as though the question deserved no answer.
“Fellow down the hall.”