“I haven’t got an office boy. Who do you think I am—Pierpont Morgan?”
Thus reassured, the girl produced a delicate handkerchief, formerly the property of Harrod’s Stores and parted from unwittingly by that establishment.
“Chimp,” she said, brushing away a tear, “I’m sim’ly miserable.”
Chimp Twist was not the man to stand idly by while beauty in distress wept before him. He slid up and was placing a tender arm about her shoulder, when she jerked herself away.
“You can tie a can to that stuff,” she said with womanly dignity. “I’d like you to know I’m married.”
“Married?”
“Sure. Day before yesterday—to Soapy Molloy.”
“Soapy!” Mr. Twist started. “What in the world did you want to marry that slab of Gorgonzola for?”
“I’ll ask you kindly, if you wouldn’t mind,” said the girl in a cold voice, “not to go alluding to my husband as slabs of Gorgonzola.”
“He is a slab of Gorgonzola.”