"Don't fash yourself, old man. At least you've been tailored in London, and that's something. You'll do—in Chicago."
"I'll do O.K. right here," said Blake. "What say? You've spoiled my afternoon. We'll call it quits if you settle down with me and put in the time chinning about things."
"Tammas, I'm shocked at you," reproved Lord James. "You cannot wish to disappoint Mrs. Gantry, really!"
"Mrs. Gantry be—"
"No, no! Do not say it, my deah Tammas! When one is in Society, y'know, one is privileged to think it, but it's bad form to express it so—ah—broadly—ah—I assure you."
He adjusted his monocle and stared with a vacuous blandness well calculated to madden his friend. Blake hurled a magazine, which his lordship deftly sidestepped. He reached for his hat, and faced Blake with boyish eagerness.
"Come on, Tom. Chuck the rotting. We're wasting time."
"Must have a taxicab waiting for you," bantered Blake.
"No, a young lady. Miss Dolores is really eager to become acquainted with you, and—er—she may have a friend or two—"
"Excuse me!"