"A cigarette, somebody, quick—before I faint!"
Winifred by a mighty twisting produced a concaved golden case and snapped it open, only to gasp:
"Empty! My God, it's empty!"
Persis saved the day. "I have some. Give us a light, Willie. There's a dear."
As usual, Willie had a counter-idea.
"But, Persis, don't you think you could wait till—"
Her only answer was, "Murray, give me a light."
Ten Eyck called out, "Right-o, milydy, if Bob will hold our little hostlet half a mo." And he deposited Willie in the arms of the big man while he fumbled in his waistcoat for a book of matches and passed it back into the dark. "'Ere you are, your lydyship." He was forever talking in some dialect or other.
But Persis gave him her cigarette and pleaded: "It's so conspicuous holding a match to your face on Broadway. Light mine for me, Murray."
"It's highly unsanitary," said Ten Eyck; "but if you don't mind I don't. I fancy these cigarettes of yours would choke any self-respecting microbe to death."