"Excuse me, Mr. Biggles," says I, "but it's all off."
"I—I beg pardon?" says he, gazin' at me fish-eyed and stupid.
"Ah, let's not run around in circles," says I. "Miss Gray presents her compliments, and all that sort of stuff, but she's goin' into another line. If you must know, she's going to bust up the cook combine, and from now on she'll be mighty busy. Get me?"
Biggles stiffens and stares at me haughty. "I don't in the least understand anything of all this," says he. "I had an appointment with Marion for this evening; something quite important to—to us both. I may as well tell you that I had asked Marion a momentous question. I am waiting for her answer."
"Well, here it is," says I, holdin' out the hat.
Biggles, he gurgles something indignant and turns purple in the gills, but he ends by snatchin' away the derby and marchin' stiff to the door.
"Understand," says he, with his hand on the knob, "I do not accept your impertinence as a reply. I—I shall see Marion again."
"Sure you will," says I. "She'll be around to get your dinner order early next week."
"Bah!" says Biggles, bangin' the door behind him.
But, say, inside of five minutes he'd been wiped off the slate, and them two girls was plannin' their hot-food campaign as busy and excited as if it was Marion's church weddin' they were doping out. It's after midnight before they breaks away, too.