"If you mean he's got himself out of buying a picture, you're mistaken," says she. "Come along."
She insists on callin' the bluff, too. Course, I tries to show her, all the way up in the limousine, how punk a performer I'd be at a game like that, and how they'd spot me for a bush leaguer the first stab I made.
"Not at all," says Marjorie, "if you do as I tell you."
With that she proceeds to coach me in the art critic business. The lines wa'n't hard to get, anyway.
"For some of them," she goes on, "you merely go 'Um-m-m!' under your breath, you know, or 'Ah-h-h-h!' to yourself. Then when I give you a nudge you may exclaim, 'Fine feeling!' or 'Very daring!' or 'Wonderful technic, wonderful!'"
"Yes; but when must I say which?" says I.
"It doesn't matter in the least," says Marjorie.
"And you think just them few remarks," says I, "will pull me through."
"Enough for an entire exhibit at the National Academy," says she. "And when you decide which you like best, just point it out to Mr. Bladen."
"Gee!" says I. "Suppose I pick a lemon?"