Rosalind wanted a cocktail and lunch. She sat on the edge of Annan’s writing table, swinging one trim foot, interrupting breezily when it suited her, or satisfying her capricious curiosity with his inky copy. “Not so bad,” she drawled, shuffling a dozen unnumbered sheets together and tossing them under his nose. “Come on, ducky, and talk to me ere we feast and revel.” “I’m going to give you your lunch when it’s ready. Until then I want to work. Run away and play, Linda----” “Play nothing! We’re closed for the summer. Mom’s gone to the mountains and I’m queen of the flat. I sleep most of the time. Lay off, ducky, and converse with your little lonely Linda----” “Wait a second, will you----” he protested. “Let my papers alone----” “No, not a second will I wait--not a heart-throb! Regardez-moi, beau jeune homme. Ayez pitié de moi----” She leaned over, patted his crisp hair, joggled his pen, gave a fillip to his nose. “Betsy’s going to Paris,” she said. “What do you think of that?” “Why don’t you go too?” “You want to get rid of me? You can’t. By the way, how’s your solemn friend, Mr. Coltfoot?” “All right,” he murmured, scratching away on his copy. “And Eris? Do you ever see her, Barry?” “Now and then.” “Is it all over?” “What?” “Your affair with her----” “Can it, Rosalind!----” “_You’re_ the canner, my fickle friend. We’re all pickles and you jarred us.... Sour pickles.... When you’re through with a girl she’s a schmeer. “Look at me! I’m a schmeer. I was innocent and happy till you came schmoozing.... You know what I hear about Eris?” No answer. “Albert Smull is crazy about her.... He’s married, isn’t he?” “Yes.” “They’re the fancy devils, aren’t they?--those red-necked, ruddy-jowled, hand-groomed Wall Street Romeos. But there’s just a vulgar suspicion of the natty and jaunty about them;--and their chins are always shaved blue----” “Confound it----” he exclaimed, “can’t you let me finish this page?” “Don’t you like gossip, ducky?” she inquired with a baby stare. He lay back in his chair while a scowl struggled with an unwilling smile. “His Greatness,” she said, “looks hungry. When do we trifle with rare wines and sparkling fruits? Oh--and that reminds me, I want to tell you about a suitor--you know him--Wilkes Bruce, the painter ... just to show you how a man sometimes cans himself. There are two words that all fakes love to hand a girl. “He was making a hit with me at the Ritz, and I was showing him that scarab ring you tell me is phony; and he suddenly said those two words--said ’em both in one breath!--‘_Indubitably_,’ says he, ‘this is a _veritable_ antique!’ The _two_ words!... I’m off that schmeer,” she added. Annan wanted to yawn but stifled the indiscretion. “You know,” she drawled, “I’m sorry for Eris.” “Why?” “Well, she has picked a bum in Ratford Creevy, and in that Dutch souse, Emil Shunk. It isn’t agreeable to work with such people.... And I fancy Smull is beginning to bother her, too.”