"That's damn square of you, Querida."
"Oh, no, not square; just natural. The public table is big enough for everybody."
Allaire thought a moment, slowly caressing his foxy hair.
"After all," he said with a nervous snicker, "you needn't be afraid of anybody. Nobody can paint like you…. But I'd like to get a look in, Querida. I've got to make a little money in one way or another—" he added impudently—"and if I can't paint well enough to sting them, there's always the chance of marrying one of 'em."
Querida laughed: "Any man can always marry any woman. There's no trick in getting any wife you want."
"Sure," grinned Allaire; "a wife is a cinch; it's the front row that keeps good men guessing." He glanced at Querida, his gray-green eyes brimming with an imprudent malice he could not even now deny himself—"Also the backs of the magazines keep one guessing," he added, carelessly; "and I've the patience of a tom-cat, myself."
Querida's beautifully pencilled eyebrows were raised interrogatively.
"Oh, I'll admit that the little West girl kept me sitting on back fences until some other fellow threw a bottle at me," said Allaire with a disagreeable laugh. He had come as near as he dared to taunting Querida and, afraid at the last moment, had turned the edge of it on himself.
Querida lighted a cigarette and blew a whiff of smoke toward the ceiling.
"I've an idea," he said, lazily, "that somebody is trying to marry her."