“Angel, you’re wrong,” said Flick suavely. “If you want to know what makes woman an elevating force and a tender, inspiring ideal in the life of rough men, sit here and watch Millie.”
Belle Shaler slumped to the table, swung up on it, and lit a cigarette before she condescended to glance down at Flick.
“Say, I’ll bet that’s what you think,” she said, with her battling glance.
“A woman like Millie,” said Flick, from the cushions, watching dreamily the bustling progress of the housecleaning, “could make me a credit to society.”
“Ha, ha!” said Belle, and flicked away the ash of her cigarette with a scornful wave. “What you need, bo, is a hell-cat, a raring, tearing hell-cat with a rotten temper, to stand over you with a poker and whang you one. Then you’d work.”
“No, Belle; no,” said Flick, putting out his hand as though to ward her off. “I can not marry you.”
“Dog!” said Belle, and flung at him the nearest object at hand, which happened to be a saucer.
“I really do believe they’re fond of each other,” said Tootles, the acute observer.
“Oh, you’re no better,” said Belle, turning on him; “you’re worse. You’ve got brains and won’t use them. Lord, but I loathe a bunch of work-dodgers! I see your finish—a lot of sandwich-men beating the pavements.”
“What the devil does she come around here for?” said Flick, beginning to grow angry, “just as we were comfy?”