"Hello, Genius," he said, patting Neville on the back with a pudgy hand.
"How's your twin brother, Vice?"
"Hello, you large and adipose object!" retorted Neville, seating himself in the tonneau. "How is that overworked, money-grubbing intellect of yours staggering along?"
"Handicapped with precious thoughts; Ogilvy threw 'em into me when he was here. How's the wanton Muse, Louis? Sitting on your knees as usual?"
"One arm around my neck," admitted Neville, "and the band playing
'Sweethearts.'"
"Waiting for you to order inspiration cocktails. You're looking fit."
"Am I? I haven't had one."
"Oh, I thought you threw one every time you painted that pretty model of yours—" He looked sideways at Neville, but seeing that he was unreceptive, shrugged.
"You're a mean bunch, you artists," he said. "I'd like to meet that girl, but because I'm a broker anybody'd think I had rat-plague from the way you all quarantine her—yes, the whole lot of you—Ogilvy, Annan, Querida. Why, even Penrhyn Cardemon has met her; he told me so; and if he has why can't I—"
"For heaven's sake let up!" said Neville, keeping his temper, "and tell me how everybody is at Ashuelyn."
"Huh! I'm ridden off as usual," grunted Cameron. "All right, then; I'll fix it myself. What was it you were gracious enough to inquire of me?"