"Like a hen," suggested Ogilvy, absently.
"Like a hen?" repeated Burleson. "What in hell has a hen got to do with the subject?"
"Like you, then, John," said Annan, "honest, solid, but totally unacquainted with the finer phases of contemporary humour—"
"I'm as humorous as anybody!" roared Burleson.
"Sure you are, John—just as humorously contemporaneous as anybody of our anachronistic era," said Ogilvy, soothingly. "You're right; there's nothing funny about a hen."
"And here's a highball for you, John," said Neville, concocting a huge one on the sideboard.
"And here are two charming ladies for you, John," added Sam, as Valerie and Rita Tevis entered the open door and mockingly curtsied to the company.
"We've dissected your character," observed Annan to Valerie, pointing to her portrait. "We know all about you now; Sam was the professor who lectured on you, but you can blame Kelly for turning on the searchlight."
"What search-light?" she asked, pivotting from Neville's greeting, letting her gloved hand linger in his for just a second longer than convention required.
"Harry means that portrait of you I started last year," said Neville, vexed. "He pretends to find it full of psychological subtleties."