"I admit it," says he. "One does, you know, in forty years."
"There, there, Kyrle Ballard!" warns Zenobia. "Throw the calendar at me again, and out you go! I simply won't have it! Besides, I'm hungry. Torchy is to blame. He suggested hot dog sandwiches. Take a sniff. Do they appeal to you, or have you cultivated epicurean tastes to such an extent that——"
"Ah-h-h-h!" says Ballard, bendin' over the paper bag I'm holdin'. "My favorite delicacy. And if I might be permitted to add a bottle or two of cold St. Louis——"
"Do you think I keep house without an icebox?" demands Zenobia. "Stop your silly speeches, and let's get into the dining-room."
Some hustler, Zenobia is, too. Inside of two minutes she's shed her wraps, passed out plates and glasses, and we're tacklin' a Coney Island collation.
"I had been wondering if it could be you," says Ballard. "I'd been watching you through the glasses."
"Yes, I know," says Zenobia. "And we had quite settled it that you were a strange admirer. I'm frightfully disappointed!"
"Then you didn't know me?" says he. "But just now——"
"Voices don't turn gray or change color," says Zenobia. "Yours sounds just as it did—well, the last time I heard it."
"That August night, eh?" suggests Mr. Ballard, suspendin' operations on the sandwich and leanin' eager across the table.