“Am I right, or is she a hussie?” he inquired, mischievously.
“She’s an idjit,” snapped Mrs. Sniffen. “Spanking is what she needs.”
“You give her one,” he suggested in guarded tones, glancing instinctively at the closed door beyond.
“Shall you be back to lunch, sir?”
He was descending the stairs, his story bulging in his coat pocket.
“No; but don’t let her go till I come back. I’m going to try to persuade her to go home to the pigs and cows.... And, Xantippe, there’ll be four to dinner. Eight o’clock will be all right.... I’d like a few flowers.”
“Very well, sir.”
Annan went out. The house had cooled during the night and the heat in the street struck him in the face.
“Hell,” he muttered, “isn’t there any end to this!”
There is no shabbier, dingier city in the world than New York in midsummer.