"Better brace yourself for a turndown, though," says I, "I see it coming to you. You ain't the type at all."
"Perhaps you don't know," says she, trippin' off to get her hat.
Ever see one of them mobs that turns out when there's a call for a new chorus? I've had to push my way through 'em once or twice up in some of them office buildings along the Rialto, and believe me, it's a weird collection; all sorts, from wispy little flappers who should be in grammar school still, to hard-faced old battle axes who used to travel with Nat Goodwin. So I couldn't figure little Miss Joyce gettin' anything more'n a passing glance in that aggregation. Yet when she shows up in the mornin' she's lookin' sort of smilin' and chirky.
"Well," said I, "did you back out after lookin' 'em over?"
"Oh, no," says she. "I was tried out with the first lot and engaged right away. They're rushing the production, you see, and I happened to fit in. Why, inside of an hour they had twenty of us rehearsing. I'm to be in the first big number, I think—one of the Moonbeam girls. Isn't that splendid?"
"If that's what you want," says I, "I expect it is. But how about the folks back home? What'll they say to this wide jump of yours?"
"I've decided not to tell them anything about it," says she. "Not for a long time, anyway."
"They might hear, though," I suggests. "Just where do you come from?"
"Why, Saskatoun," says she, without battin' an eyelash.
"Oh, all right, if you don't want to tell," says I.