"Help yourself," says I. "Is there anything else?" "Is it true," says she, "that you have bought The Toreador?" "Who's been givin' you that?" says I, prickin' up my ears. "Mr. Ogden," says she. "He's an authority," says I, "and what he says along that line I don't dispute." "Then you _have_ bought it?" says she. "How exasperating! I was going to get Mr. Ogden to let me have The Toreador this week." "The whole of it?" says I. "Why, of course," says she. "Gee!" thinks I. "It can't be an apartment house, then. Maybe it's an oil paintin', or a parlor car." "But there!" she goes on. "I suppose you only bought it as a speculation. Now what is your price for next week?" Say, for the love of Pete, I couldn't tell what it was gave me a grouch. Maybe it was only the off-hand way she threw it out, or the snippy chin-toss that goes with it. But I felt like I'd been stroked with a piece of sand paper. "It's too bad," says I, "but you've made a wrong guess. I'm usin' The Toreador next week myself." "_You!_" says she, and through the gauze curtain I could see her hump her eyebrows. That finished the job. Even if The Toreador turned out to be a new opera house or a tourin' balloon, I was goin' to keep it busy for the next seven days. "Why not me?" I says. "All alone?" says she. Well, I didn't know where it would land me, but I wa'n't goin' to have her tag me for a solitaire spender. "Not much," says I. "I was just makin' up my list. How do you spell Mrs. Twombley-Crane's last name--with a k?" "Really!" says she. "Do you mean to say that _she_ is to be one of your guests? Then you must be going just where I'd planned to go--to the Newport evolutions?" "Sure thing," says I. I'd heard of their havin' all kinds of fool doin's at Newport, but evolutions wa'n't one of 'em. The bluff had to be made good, though. The lady pushes up her mosquito nettin' drop, like she wanted to see if I was unwindin' the string ball or not, and then for a minute she taps her chin with them foldin' eyeglasses. I wanted to sing out to her that she'd dent the enamel if she didn't quit bein' so careless, but I held in. Say, what's the use eatin' carrots and takin' buttermilk baths, when you can have a mercerized complexion like that laid on at the shop? All of a sudden she flashes up a little silver case, and pushes out a visitin' card. "There's my name and address," says she. "If you should change your mind about using The Toreador, you may telephone me; and I hope you will." "Oh!" says I, spellin' out the old English letters. "I've heard Pinckney speak of you. Well, say, seein' as you're so anxious, I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll just put you down for an in-vite. How does that hit you?" I had an idea she might blow up, at that. But say, there was nothin' of the kind. "Why," says she, "I'm not sure but that would be quite a novelty. Yes, you may count on me. Good day," and she was gone without so much as a "thank you kindly."