And before the fillet of sole was served the Major had unlimbered his conversation works, and that pair was havin' about the chattiest time of any couple in the place, with me and J. Bayard stranded on the side lines.
"Do you know, my dear Major," we hears her announce about nine-fifteen, as she toys with a three-dollar portion of roast pheasant, "I had no idea New York could be like this. Then there are the theaters, the opera. I believe I shall stay up for the rest of the season."
"Good!" says the Major. "I shall stay too."
Half an hour later, while he was showin' her how to burn brandy on her demitasse, I nudges Steele.
"Say," I whispers, "me for a spot where I ain't formin' a crowd!"
Steele takes a hasty glance at 'em. "I—I'm with you," says he.
"What!" says I. "Goin' to hand him over to her?"
He nods. "Well," says I, "I guess that'll pass for a kind deed."
"Also somewhat of a generous one," says he, exhibitin' the footin' of the dinner bill he's just settled for.
I don't think they noticed, either of 'em, when we did our sneak. Once outside, J. Bayard takes a long breath, like he was relieved at havin' shifted something. Then he sort of sighs.