Course, I frames this up for the friend; so I asks innocent, "Excuse me, but when is little Miss Gladys comin'?"
"Why, I'm Gladys!" comes from between the carmine streaks.
I gawps at her, then at the maid, and then back at the Ziegfeld vision again. "But, see here!" I goes on. "Mr. Robert he says how——"
"Yes, I know," she breaks in. "He 'phoned. The stupid old thing couldn't come himself, and he's sent one of his young men. That's much nicer. Torchy, didn't he say? How odd! But come along. Don't stand there staring. Good-by, Marie. You must do my hair this way again sometime."
And next thing I know I'm helpin' her into the car, while Martin tries to smother a grin. "There you are!" says I, chuckin' her suitcase in after her. "I—I guess I'll ride in front."
"What!" says she. "And leave me to take that long ride all alone? I'll not do it. Come in here at once, or I'll not go a step! Come!"
No shrinking violet about Gladys, and as I climbs in I shakes loose the last of that kindergarten dope I'd been primed with. I'll admit I was some fussed for awhile too, and I expect I does the dummy act, sittin' there gazin' into the limousine mirror where she's reflected vivid. I was tryin' to size her up and decide whether she really was one of the chicken ballet, or only a high school imitation. I'm so busy at it that I overlooks the fact that she has the same chance of watchin' me.
"Well?" says she, as we swings into Central Park. "I trust you approve?"
"Eh?" says I, comin' out of the trance. "Oh, I get you now. You're waitin' for the applause. Let's see, are you on at the Winter Garden, or is it the Casino roof?"
"Now don't be rude," says she. "Whatever made you think I'd been on the stage?"