"Where did you know her? Who are you, anyway?" snapped his inquisitress, her temper quite gone.
The Tyro leaned forward and fixed his gaze midway of the lady's adequate corsage.
"If you want to know," said he, "you're carrying my favor above your heart, or near it, this minute. Look on the under side of your necktie."
The indignant one turned the scarf and read with a baleful eye: "Smitholder: Pat. April 10, 1912." "What does Smitholder mean?" she demanded.
"A holder for neckwear, the merits of which modesty forbids me to descant upon, invented by its namesake, Smith."
"Ah," said she, with a great contempt. "Then your name, I infer, is Smith."
He bowed. "Smith's as good a trade name as any other."
"Very well, Mr. Smith. Take my advice and keep your distance from Miss Wayne. Otherwise—"
"Well, otherwise?" encouraged the Tyro as she paused.
"I shall send a wireless to my cousin. And to Mr. Wayne. I suppose you know, at least, who Hurry-up Wayne of Wall Street is."