Blamed if it ain't the cooin' widow. She's right there with the old familiar purry gush, too, squeezin' my fingers kittenish and askin' me how "dear, sweet Verona" is. I was just noticin' that she'd ditched the half mournin' for some real zippy raiment when she leans back so as to exhibit a third party in the taxi—a young gent with one of these dead-white faces and a cute little black mustache—reg'lar lounge-lizard type.
"Oh, and you must meet my dear friend, Mr. Vinton Bartley," she purrs. "Vinton, this is the Torchy I've spoken about so often."
"Ah, ya-a-as," drawls Vinton, blowin' out a whiff of scented cigarette smoke lazy. "Quite so. But—er—hadn't we best be getting on, Lorina?"
"Yes, yes," coos Mrs. Mumford. "By-by, Captain. Good-by, Torchy."
And off they whirls, leavin' me with my mouth open and Rupert starin' after 'em gloomy.
"Lorina, eh?" says I. "How touchin'!"
Killam only grunts, but it struck me he has tinted up a bit under the eyes.
"Say, Rupert," I goes on, "who's your languid friend with the cream-of-cabbage complexion?"
"Bartley?" says he. "Oh, he's a friend of Mrs. Mumford; a drama-tist—so he says."
Now, I might have let it ride at that and gone along about my own affairs, which ain't so pressin' just then. Yes, I might. But I don't. Maybe it was hornin' in where there was no welcome sign on the mat, and then again perhaps it was only a natural folksy feelin' for an old friend I hadn't seen for a long time. Anyway, I'm prompted sudden to take Rupert by the arm and insist that he must come and have lunch with me.