“Well, Myrtle dear, what have you been making up your mind I am to do?”
“Try a chance with a moving-picture house,” said Myrtle eagerly. “Honest, King, I mean it. I’ve been thinking of what you might do for days. I want to see you get ahead. There’s an old fellow called Pomello that has struck it rich and would do anything for me. Put some money in with him. Sure, I could arrange it in a minute.”
“My money is already invested,” said King O’Leary, telling a defensive fib.
“There are a dozen chances passing you every day, if you’ll only keep your eyes open,” said Myrtle, sitting on the sofa next to O’Leary, with such excitement in her great green eyes that King O’Leary was conscious of a pleasant conceit.
“Myrtle, I’m afraid you’re a determined woman,” he said, with a provoking smile.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she said. “What would I be to-day if I couldn’t make up my mind? What you need is some one to push you on.”
“How would you like to be rolling up the Roo Royale—that’s in Paris—in a jingling open-front carriage, stretched back and watching the dukes and duchesses go by?” said King O’Leary maliciously.
“You’ll never be sensible,” said Myrtle, frowning.
He lay back, propped up against the pillows, watching the fine figure the girl made sitting there, her eyes sparkling with the busy schemes she was concocting in the back of her head, of whose one object he was pleasantly aware.
“What a pity I’m not the marrying kind,” he said slyly. “I believe you would make an alderman out of me.”