“My dear Mart,” said Joyce, “why do you insult me by hinting that I’m such a snob that I’ll be offended by racy slang, and by business ethics very much like those of dear Roger’s grandpapa? Do you think I’ve never ventured out of the drawing-room? I thought you’d seen me outside it! I shall probably like your Clawson person very much indeed.”
The day after Martin had invited him to dinner, Clif telephoned to Joyce:
“This Mrs. Arrowsmith? Well, say, this is old Clif.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Clif! Old Clif!”
“I’m frightfully sorry but— Perhaps there’s a bad connection.”
“Why, it’s Mr. Clawson, that’s going to feed with you on—”
“Oh, of course. I am so sorry.”
“Well, look: What I wanted to know is: Is this going to be just a homey grub-grabbing or a real soirée? In other words, honey, shall I dress natural or do I put on the soup-and-fish? Oh, I got ’em—swallow-tail and the whole darn’ outfit!”
“I— Do you mean— Oh. Shall you dress for dinner? I think perhaps I would.”