CHAPTER XI
I’M tired of the Grays. They’re very nice people, but they can’t talk,” said Una to Bessie Kraker, at lunch in the office, on a February day.
“How do yuh mean ‘can’t talk’? Are they dummies?” inquired Bessie.
“Dummies?”
“Yuh, sure, deef and dumb.”
“Why, no, I mean they don’t talk my language—they don’t, oh, they don’t, I suppose you’d say ‘conversationalize.’ Do you see?”
“Oh yes,” said Bessie, doubtfully. “Say, listen, Miss Golden. Say, I don’t want to butt in, and maybe you wouldn’t be stuck on it much, but they say it’s a dead-swell place to live—Miss Kitson, the boss’s secretary where I was before, lived there—”
“Say, for the love o’ Mike, say it: Where?” interrupted the office-boy.