“Hm!” mused the Worm, “it's in writing already, eh!”
Hy shrugged his shoulders. “The old world has to go round,” said he. Then his eyes grew dreamy. “But, my boy, my boy! You should see her—the darling of the gods! Absolutely the darling of the gods! Met her at the Grand Roof. Good lord! figured in cold calendar arithmetic, it isn't eight days. But then, they say eternity is but a moment.”
“A dancing case?” queried the Worm.
Hy nodded. “After ten steps, my son, we knew! Absolutely knew! She knew. I knew. We were helpless—it had to be.”
At this point Hy pocketed his watch and settled back to smoke comfortably. He always bolted his breakfast by the watch; he always chatted or read the paper afterward; he was always late at the office.
The Worm was studying him quizzically. “Hy,” he said, “how do you do it?”
“Do what?” queried Hy, struggling with a smile of self-conscious elation.
“Oh, come! You know. This!” The Worm gestured inclusively with his pipe. “Ten days ago it was that Hilda Hansen person from Wisconsin. Two weeks before that—”
Hy raised his hand. “Go easy with the dead past, my son.”
The Worm pressed on. “Morally, ethically, you are doubtless open to criticism. As are the rest of us. That is neither here nor there. What I want to know is, how do you do it? You're not beautiful. You're not witty—though the younger among 'em might think you were, for the first few hours. But the ladies, God bless 'em!—overlooking many men of character and charm, overlooking even myself—come after you by platoons, regiments, brigades. They fairly break in your door. What is it? How do you do it?”