"Why," he goes on, "I see no serious objection. Surely she might spare him for five minutes. Yes, of course. You may have my taxi if you'll drop me at the club first. Let's do it."
So that's how I come to be interviewin' a chesty head waiter at the Tarleton twenty minutes later. From where I stood I could see Warrie Mason well enough, but I has to write out a message and have it taken in. Him and Miss Prentice are havin' dinner all by themselves, and they sure make a swell-lookin' pair. Warrie he looks classy in anything, but in evenin' clothes he's a reg'lar young grand duke; while Miss Prentice—well, she's one of these soft, pouty-lipped, droopy-eyed charmers, the kind you see bein' crushed against some manly shirt bosom on the magazine covers. I watches her nod careless as Warrie explains what's in the note, and the next minute he's out givin' me the cordial hail.
"What!" says he. "A friend from Sand Spur? By Jove! It—it can't be Valentina, can it?"
"She's the one," says I. "Goin' back early in the mornin' too, so I didn't know but you might like to step out and—"
"Step out nothing!" says he. "Bring her in. There's only Gladys, and we're just starting dinner. I want you both to join us."
"Wha-a-at?" I gasps. "Lug Valentina—in there!"
"Most certainly," says he.
"But see here, you big boob," says I, "have you got any idea how she's costumed?"
He laughs. "Let's see," he goes on, "it ought to be a dark blue print with red polka dots. That used to be her Sunday dress."
"You win," says I. "The styles in Sand Spur ain't changed any. But this is Fifth Avenue, remember."