And if you will believe me, that's about all he would say. Wasn't even much excited over the fact that a hundred thousand dollar sugar plantation was about to be wished on him. Oh, yes, he'd go down with Don Pedro and take possession. Was the grave of Donna Mario there? Then he would go, surely. "I--I would rather like to," says Old Jonesey. "Huh," says I. "You better stick around until tomorrow noon. I want you to hear what I've got to feed to that bond-room bunch." Jonesey shakes his head. No, he'd rather not. And as he shuffles back to his old files I hears him mumblin', sort of soft and easy: "Donna Mario. Ah, yes! Donna Mario!" Which proves, don't it, that you can't always tell. Even when the party has such a common name as Jones. CHAPTER XI AS LUCY LEE PASSED BY Someone put on that Tales of Hoffman record, please, with a soft needle. Thanks. Now if you'll turn out all but one bulb in the old rose-shaded electrolier and pass the chocolate marshmallows maybe I'll try to sketch out for you this Lucy Lee-Peyton Pratt version of the sweetest story ever told. We got Lucy Lee on the bounce, as it were. She really hadn't come all the way up from Atlanta to visit Vee even if they were old boardin'-school chums. No, she was on her way to a house party up in Lenox and was fillin' in the time before that happened by making a duty stay with an old maid aunt who lived on Madison Avenue. But when it develops that Auntie is taking the buttermilk cure for dyspepsia, has grown too deaf to enjoy the theater, and is bugs over manipulatin' the Ouija board, Lucy Lee gets out her address book and begins callin' up old friends. I don't know how far down Vee was on the list but she seems to be the first one to fall easy. When she hears how bored Lucy Lee is on Madison Avenue she insists on her coming right out with us. So I get my orders to round up Lucy Lee when I'm through at the office and tow her out home. Hence this openin' scene in the taxi where I finds myself being sized up coy and curious. There's only one way of describin' Lucy Lee. She's a sweet young thing. Nothing big or bouncy about her. No. One of these half-portions. But cute and kittenish from the tip of her double A pumps to the floppy hat brim which only half hides a dangerous pair of eyes. "So good of you, Mr. Ballard," says she, shootin' over a shy look, "to take all this trouble for poor little me." "It's a gift," says I. "Comes natural. What about baggage?" "I've sent a few things by express," says she. "Thank you so much, Mr.--er--Do you know, I've heard such a lot about you from dear Vee that I simply must call you Torchy." "If it's a case of must," says I, "then go to it."