“It carries,” Kay assured him.
The clouds which her compliments had chased from Mr. Braddock’s brow gathered again.
“I say, Kay, you know, you really ought to do something about that girl Clara. She’s impossible. I mean, throwing onions at a fellow.”
“You mustn’t mind. Don’t worry about her; it’ll make you forget your speech. How long are you supposed to talk?”
“About ten minutes, I imagine. You know, this is going to just about kill me.”
“What you must do is drink lots and lots of champagne.”
“But it makes me spotty.”
“Well, be spotty. I shan’t mind.”
Mr. Braddock considered.
“I will,” he said. “It’s a very good idea. Well, I suppose I ought to be going.”