Part 1 (2/2)
”I believe it's mine,” retorted one of the two players, indignantly rising to her feet and starting toward the door.
”And mine,” responded the other, following suit. At the door the twain paused and called to the other occupant of the room: ”We are going for a walk, Mabel. Won't you come?”
Mabel picked up her book and moved toward the irate checker-players who had been so summarily routed.
”I don't like that cigar,” she declared, stopping and turning to Zinsheimer.
”Well, then, try one of these,” responded the irrepressible ”Marky,”
offering several long perfectos from a leather case. He was answered only by a snort of indignation, and the next moment the smiling and courteous Mr. Zinsheimer, alone on the field of battle, settled himself in the most comfortable of the vacated chairs.
But ”Marky's” serenity was to be short-lived. There was a rattle of chatelaine chains, a vague and indistinct odor of some unrecognizable but vivid perfume, the rustle of silken skirts, a cry of glad surprise, and Miss Flossie Forsythe, engaging, attractive, youthful and magnetic, settled herself on the arm of his rocking-chair as though ent.i.tled to rest there by the law of eminent domain.
”Marky,” she cried, ”I've been looking for you everywhere! Who ever would have thought of finding you in the sun parlor?”
Mr. Zinsheimer coughed uneasily.
”Yes, that's just what I thought,” he stammered. ”You see,” he added, ”I noticed you talking to that swell chap Gordon in the lobby, and I didn't like it.”
Flossie patted his cheek playfully, in spite of ”Marky's” efforts to elude her, and said joyfully:
”Oh, Marky, you were jealous!”
Mr. Zinsheimer grunted.
”Well, if you want to find a new backer, go ahead. All right, only you'd better be careful I don't get cold feet first. Feather importers _is_ in demand on Broadway this season,” he added as an afterthought.
”But Mr. Gordon is an old friend,” pouted Flossie. ”I was introduced to him one night when he sat at a table next to me during the run of 'Florodora.'”
”I suppose you were one of them original s.e.xtetters, eh?”
”Now, Marky, don't be horrid when I was just going to ask a little favor of you.”
Mr. Zinsheimer rose to his feet carefully, and b.u.t.toned up his coat with an ominous air, while, relieved of his ballast, Flossie almost fell from her comfortable perch on the arm of the big chair.
”Nothing doing, Flossie,” remarked Zinsheimer, coldly. ”Of course it's all right for me to pay the hotel bill of my fiancee, but as the bill is a.s.suming generous proportions, I don't think the fiancee should expect to go any further.”
Flossie's dark eyes half filled with tears, and there was just a slight suspicion of a twitch around the lips at the injustice done her, and she said plaintively:
”Oh, I don't want to borrow any money.”
At that Zinsheimer threw open his coat easily, sighed with relief, and inquired easily:
”Why, certainly, my dear. What is it you want?”
”Well, it's about my chum, Pinkie Lexington,” began Flossie, brus.h.i.+ng a few spects of dust from Mr. Zinsheimer's coat-sleeve. ”We were out together two years ago with 'The Girl from Paris'--the time it stranded in b.u.t.te and you sent us the railroad tickets to come home.”
”I remember,” interrupted Zinsheimer, quickly. ”Rather a pretty girl she was, too.”
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