"Oh, I'm okay," the reporter returned, sarcastically. "I've got a nice, soft cement floor to sleep on, and—oh, say! what I would really like is a good stiff highball. My jaw, you know—"
"Yes, I know all about it," Pat interrupted. "Niki must have given you an awful crack. I saw everything from the gallery in the hall!"
"Sympathetic, eh?"
"I very much regret to say I am," Pat answered. "I think my Uncle Henry is treating you outrageously. But he's rather eccentric, as you know, and tonight, I'm afraid he's a little tight, or he wouldn't have done a terrible thing like this."
"Ah, so you're Miss Patricia Preston, the society girl with so much money and leisure she doesn't know what to do with them," McGinity said quickly. "Your photo, sitting next to Prince Matani, at the polo tournament at Meadow Brook last week, in the box with your Aunt Jane, appeared in our Sunday rotogravure section. Don't tell me you've fallen for a foreign gink like that?"
Pat must have stared at him, thunderstruck, for she said, with a gasp: "How do you know so much?"
"I happen to know, and I have my own reasons for knowing," the reporter replied. "We won't discuss that for the moment. Suppose you answer my question?"
There was a pause, then Pat said: "No; it isn't like that. It isn't what you think at all."
"Well, I'm very glad to hear that," said the reporter. "Now, I'll tell you something you don't know. Your father, Allston Preston, and my dad were classmates at college—great pals."
"Really?"