“The high-life gink who is moving into the corner studio?”
“No; O’Leary—fellow next to Lady Vere De Vere,” said Tootles, thus characterizing Miss Inga Sonderson, who had impressed him with her haughty aloofness.
“Oh!” Wilder slowly drew himself up and looked inquiringly at Tootles. “What time?”
“Dinner-time, naturally.”
“Art,” said Wilder severely, “there are some sacred words which you ought to respect.”
“I was just thinking how lovely it would be to sit down before a large, juicy beefsteak,” said Tootles incorrigibly. “You know the kind, browned on the outside, rare inside, melting in the mouth.”
Wilder flung a slipper across the room that missed Tootles’ head and clattered among the paint-brushes.
“Well, Literature, supposing there is an ice-box, is there anything in it?”
“You’re forgetting your English accent, Tootles,” said Wilder, as he bustled, whistling, over to the window-box.
“My word—so I am!” said Tootles, following and peering over his shoulder.