"Really?" says she, narrowin' her eyes a bit.
"Bolan's the name, Ma'am," I goes on, "Larry Bolan."
It wa'n't much,—just a quiver, a little lift of the shoulders, a bunchin' of the fingers. Then she bites her lip and gets a grip on herself. "Well?" says she. "What of it?"
"Why," says I, "he—he wants to have a talk with you. Course, though, if you don't know him, or don't remember, all you got to do——"
"Yes, yes!" she breaks in. "I understand. Wait!"
A couple of minutes she stands there, never makin' a crack or givin' any sign, except that the toe of one slipper taps the rug restless. Then she gives her decision. "You may bring him in," says she.
"How about sendin' him?" I suggests.
"No, not alone," says she. "I want you to stay."
So I steps to the door. "Larry," says I, "you're called on the carpet; but for the love of soup don't pull any of that old sweetheart stuff reckless! The signs ain't right."
And a fat lot of notice he takes of my advice. Trust Larry! He pushes in eager ahead of me, marches straight to where she is, gives her one mushy, admirin' look, and the next thing I know he has reached for one of her hands and is kissin' it as graceful and romantic as James K. Hackett doin' a Zenda stunt.