"I am the unfortunate holder of that," said Greenwich Place. "I'd just been reading Anthony Hope and Mr. Dooley. The result is a composite, which I will read." "What do you call it, Mr. Place?" asked the stenographer. "Well, I don't know," replied Greenwich. "I guess 'A Dooley Dialogue' about describes it." VIII DOLLY VISITS CHICAGO _Being the substance of a Dooley dialogue dreamed by Greenwich Place, Esq._ "I must see him," said Dolly, rising suddenly from her chair and walking to the window. "I really must, you know." "Who?" I asked, rousing myself from the lethargy into which my morning paper had thrust me. It was not grammatical of me--I was somewhat under the influence of newspaper English--but Dolly is quick to understand. "Must see who?" I continued. "Who indeed?" cried Dolly, gazing at me in mock surprise. "How stupid of you! If I went to Rome and said I must see him, you'd know I must mean the Pope; if I went to Berlin and said I must see it, you'd know I meant the Emperor. Therefore, when I come to Chicago and say that I must see him, you ought to be able to guess that I mean--" "Mr. Dooley?" I ventured, at a guess. "Good for you!" cried Dolly, clapping her hands together joyously; and then she hummed bewitchingly, "The Boy Guessed Right the Very First Time," until I begged her to desist. When Dolly claps her hands and hums, she becomes a vision of loveliness that would give the most confirmed misogynist palpitation of the heart, and I had no wish to die. "Do you suppose I could call upon him without being thought too unconventional?" she blurted out in a moment. "You can do anything," said I, admiringly. "That is, with me to help," I added, for I should be sorry if Dolly were to grow conceited. "Perhaps it would be better to have Mr. Dooley call upon you. Suppose you send him your card, and put 'at home' on it? I fancy that would fetch him." "Happy thought!" said Dolly. "Only I haven't one. In the excitement of our elopement I forgot to get any. Suppose I write my name on a blank card and send it?" "Excellent," said I. And so it happened; the morning's mail took out an envelope addressed to Mr. Dooley, and containing a bit of pasteboard upon which was written, in the charming hand of Dolly: Mrs. R. Dolly-Rassendyll. At Home. The Hippodorium. Tuesday Afternoon. The response was gratifyingly immediate. The next morning Dolly's mail contained Mr. Dooley's card, which read as follows: [Illustration: "'I MUST SEE HIM,' SAID DOLLY"] Mr. Dooley. At Work. Every Day. Archie Road. "Which means?" said Dolly, tossing the card across the table to me. "That if you want to see Dooley you'll have to call upon him at his place of business. It's a saloon, I believe," I observed. "Or a club--most American saloons are clubs, I understand." "I wonder if there's a ladies' day there?" laughed Dolly. "If there isn't, perhaps I'd better not."