"Then let's forget it," says I.
"Forget!" says he, smilin' mushy. "Never!"
At lunch time he asks me which of the Fifth Avenue photographers I think is the best.
"Eh?" says I, grinnin'. "Thinkin' of havin' yourself mugged and sendin' the result to somebody in a silver frame?"
"Well," says he draggy, "I—I've been meaning to have some pictures taken for several years, and now——"
"Got you," says I. "But if you want something real swell let me tow you to a place I know of on Fifty-fifth."
Honest, I wasn't thinking about the Maison Noir at the time or that it was just next door. In fact, it was Peyton himself who stops in front of the show window and grabs me by the arm.
"I say!" says he, pointin' in at the exhibit. "See—see there."
He's pointin' to a display of checked gingham frocks, blue and white and pink and white, with hats to match.
"Yes," says I, "do look sort of familiar, don't they?"