“You did, eh? Well, what made you think so?”
She chuckled. “Oh, you're very obvious—to a woman.”
“I forgot that you reveal the past and foretell the future.”
“You are really very clumsy, Caliph. You should never try to direct the destiny of any woman.”
“I'm on the sick list,” he pleaded, “and it isn't sporting of you to discuss me. You're healthy—so let us discuss you. Dolores, do you figure Bill's case to be absolutely hopeless?”
“Absolutely, Caliph.”
“Hum-m-m!”
Again Webster had recourse to meditation, seeing which, Dolores walked to the pier-glass in the corner, satisfied herself that her coiffure was just so and returned to his side, singing softly a little song that had floated out over the transom of Webster's room door into the hall one night:
A Spanish cavalier,
Went out to rope a steer,