"Why do you limit yourselves to one glass?"
"Oh, we don't drink from it. We have no wine, you know."
It appeared upon investigation that they cut profile pictures of Nannie Green out of paper, laid this cut paper on another, weighting it down with bullets, and turned the glass over it. As they sat around the table smoking, each one would lift a little edge of the glass and blow the smoke under it, shutting down quickly. When the smoking was over, and glass and paper were lifted, there was a pure white silhouette of Nannie's face on an amber-colored background, cameo-like in effect. The face would be delicately shaded, soulful eyes added, and—voilà!
"Why was I not to know this?" I asked sternly.
"Because we feared you would lend us no more glasses."
"So it appears you all have a young lady's picture without her consent?"
"Why not?" they pleaded. "Isn't she perfectly welcome to ours?"
"Do you expect her to exchange, for something she doesn't want, something which you do want?"
"Well, we think she might," said one, ruefully. "If her shadow can comfort a poor fellow's cold and lonely evening, she might spare it. She can't possibly miss it."