"We can't leave her."
"Of course, we can't—worse luck—but surely you have not lost your cunning in the development of romance. You can make her see the absolute necessity for change of air and scene. You don't need a better ally than that chalky complexion of hers. Get me out of it, or I shall do something disgraceful."
"Where shall we go?"
"Anywhere. I suppose we've got to draw it mild on her pocket-book for a while; but—well, the opera season has opened in New York, and there will be something to live for. After that, we can go over the pond for a while and—"
"Why don't you try to use a little less slang, Jessica?"
"Because slang is strictly in my line, Miss Virtuous. Look here! It is quite sufficient to be on my p's and q's when our little mulatto is around, without getting qualms and—and things. I say, when are you going to propose the New York plan?"
"You really think it best?"
"Best or worst, it's going to be done. Great Scott! think of it! We've been buried in this hole for three weeks now. Not a glass of champagne, not the face of a man, not a single game of poker—nothing to relieve the dread monotony. I'd be in a mad-house in three weeks more! Besides all that, I'm dead tired of this black toggery."
"You mean to take it off when you get back to New York?"