"Sure t'ing," said Pugsy. "You're to de good."
"And now," she went on, "I must give these babies back to their mothers, and then I'll come with you."
She lowered herself through the trap, and John handed the children down to her. Pugsy looked on, smoking a thoughtful cigarette.
John drew a deep breath. Pugsy, removing the cigarette from his mouth, delivered himself of a stately word of praise.
"She's a boid," he said.
"Pugsy," said John, feeling in his pocket, and producing a roll of bills, "a dollar a word is our rate for contributions like that."
John pushed back his chair slightly, stretched out his legs, and lighted a cigarette, watching Betty fondly through the smoke. The resources of the Knickerbocker Hotel had proved equal to supplying the staff of Peaceful Moments with an excellent dinner, and John had stoutly declined to give or listen to any explanations until the coffee arrived.
"Thousands of promising careers," he said, "have been ruined by the fatal practise of talking seriously at dinner. But now we might begin."
Betty looked at him across the table with shining eyes. It was good to be together again.