"I admit it," says he. "One does, you know, in forty years." "There, there, Kyrle Ballard!" warns Zenobia. "Throw the calendar at me again, and out you go! I simply won't have it! Besides, I'm hungry. Torchy is to blame. He suggested hot dog sandwiches. Take a sniff. Do they appeal to you, or have you cultivated epicurean tastes to such an extent that----" "Ah-h-h-h!" says Ballard, bendin' over the paper bag I'm holdin'. "My favorite delicacy. And if I might be permitted to add a bottle or two of cold St. Louis----" "Do you think I keep house without an icebox?" demands Zenobia. "Stop your silly speeches, and let's get into the dining-room." Some hustler, Zenobia is, too. Inside of two minutes she's shed her wraps, passed out plates and glasses, and we're tacklin' a Coney Island collation. "I had been wondering if it could be you," says Ballard. "I'd been watching you through the glasses." "Yes, I know," says Zenobia. "And we had quite settled it that you were a strange admirer. I'm frightfully disappointed!" "Then you didn't know me?" says he. "But just now----" "Voices don't turn gray or change color," says Zenobia. "Yours sounds just as it did--well, the last time I heard it." "That August night, eh?" suggests Mr. Ballard, suspendin' operations on the sandwich and leanin' eager across the table. He's a chirky, chipper old scout, with a lot of twinkles left in his blue eyes. Must have been some gay boy in his day too; for even now he shows up more or less ornamental in his evenin' clothes. And Zenobia ain't such a bad looker either, you know; especially just now, with her ears pinked up and her eyes sparklin' mischievous. I don't know whether it's from takin' massage treatments reg'lar, or if it just comes natural, but she don't need to cover up her collar bone or wear things around her neck. "Yes, that night," says she, liftin' her glass. "Shall we drink just once to the memory of it?" Which they did. "And now," goes on Zenobia, "we will forget it, if you please." "Not I," says Ballard. "Another thing: I've never forgiven your sister Martha for what she did then. I never will." Zenobia indulges in a trilly little laugh. "No more has she forgiven you," says she. "How absurd of you both, just as though--but we'll not talk about it. I've no time for yesterdays. To-day is too full. Tell me, why are you back here?" "Because seven armies have chased me out of Europe," says he, "and my charming Vienna is too full of typhus to be quite healthy. If I'd dreamed of finding you like this, I should have come long ago." "Very pretty," says Zenobia. "I'd love to believe it, just for the sake of repeating it to Martha in the morning. She is still with me, you know." "As saintly as ever?" asks Ballard. "At thirty Martha was quite as good as she could be," says Zenobia. "There she seems to have stopped. So naturally her opinion of you hasn't altered in the least." "And yours?" says he.