“How romantic!” she mocked.
“Wrenn’s my name; William Wrenn. I work for—I used to work for the Souvenir and Art Novelty Company. In New York.”
“Oh. I see. Novelties? Nice little ash-trays with ‘Love from the Erie Station’? And woggly pin-cushions?”
“Yes! And fat pug-dogs with black eyes.”
“Oh no-o-o! Please not black! Pale sympathetic blue eyes—nice honest blue eyes!”
“Nope. Black. Awful black…. Say, gee, I ain’t talking too nutty, am I?”
“‘Nutty’? You mean ‘idiotically’? The slang’s changed since—Oh yes, of course; you’ve succeeded in talking quite nice and ‘idiotic.’”
“Oh, say, gee, I didn’t mean to—When you been so nice and all to me—”
“Don’t apologize!” Istra Nash demanded, savagely. “Haven’t they taught you that?”
“Yes’m,” he mumbled, apologetically.