"I beg pardon?" says she, her pencil poised over the pad.
"No, not Lester Biggs," says I. "By the way, how is he these days?"
"I'm sure I don't know," says she. "I—I haven't seen him for weeks."
"Oh!" says I. "Kind of thought you'd be droppin' him down the coal shute or something."
She shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. "It was he who dropped me," says she. "Flat."
"Considerin' Lester," says I, "that's more or less of a compliment."
"I am not so sure of that," says Miss Joyce. "You see, he was quite frank about it. He—he said I had no style or zipp about me. Well, I'm afraid it's true."
"Even so," says I, "it was sweet of him to throw it at you, wasn't it?"
She indulges in a sketchy, quizzin' smile. "I think some of the girls at Zinsheimer's had been teasing him about me," she goes on. "They called me 'the poor little working girl,' I believe. I've no doubt I looked it. But I haven't been able to spend much for clothes—as yet."
"Of course," says I, throwin' up a picture of an invalid mother and a coon-huntin' father back in the alfalfa somewhere. "And so far you ain't missed much by not havin' 'em. I should put Lester's loss down on the credit side if I was makin' the entry."