“You’re the canner, my fickle friend. We’re all pickles and you jarred us.... Sour pickles.... When you’re through with a girl she’s a schmeer.
“Look at me! I’m a schmeer. I was innocent and happy till you came schmoozing.... You know what I hear about Eris?”
No answer.
“Albert Smull is crazy about her.... He’s married, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“They’re the fancy devils, aren’t they?—those red-necked, ruddy-jowled, hand-groomed Wall Street Romeos. But there’s just a vulgar suspicion of the natty and jaunty about them;—and their chins are always shaved blue——”
“Confound it——” he exclaimed, “can’t you let me finish this page?”
“Don’t you like gossip, ducky?” she inquired with a baby stare.
He lay back in his chair while a scowl struggled with an unwilling smile.
“His Greatness,” she said, “looks hungry. When do we trifle with rare wines and sparkling fruits? Oh—and that reminds me, I want to tell you about a suitor—you know him—Wilkes Bruce, the painter ... just to show you how a man sometimes cans himself. There are two words that all fakes love to hand a girl.