"Mine?" says she. "Helma Allston. And yours, please, Sir?"
I wa'n't lookin' for her to send it back so prompt. She ain't at all fresh about it, you know: just easy and natural. I don't know when I've run across a youngster with such nice manners.
"Why," says I, "I guess you can call me Torchy."
"Thank you, Mr. Torchy," says she, doin' a little dancin'-school duck. "And if you don't mind, I'd like to—to stay here for a minute or two while I think what I 'd best—— O-o-o-oh!" She sort of moans out this last panicky and shrinks against the wall.
"Well, what's the trouble now?" says I.
"That's the one!" she whispers husky. "The—the man in the blue cap—the one who told me about the work papers. He said I was to clear out too."
And by followin' her scared glances I discovers this low-brow store sleuth scowlin' ugly at her.
"Pooh!" says I. "Only one of them cheap flat-foots. Don't mind him. You're waitin' with me, you know. Here!" And I reaches down a hand to her.
Maybe it wa'n't some grateful look Helma flashes up as she slips her slim, cold little fingers into mine and snuggles up like a lost kitten. The store sleuth he stares puzzled for a second; but the near-English top coat must have impressed him, for he goes sneakin' back down the main aisle.
So here I am, with this freaky little stray under my wing, when Vee comes sailin' out, all trim and classy in her silver fox furs, with a cute little hat to match, and takes in the picture. Maybe you can guess too, how the average young queen in her set would have curled her lip at sight of that faded cape and oversized cap. But not Vee! She just indulges in a flickery smile, then straightens her face out and remarks: