“Chicken! Good heavens!” moaned Fallowby.
“Chicken,” repeated West, enjoying Fallowby’s grief;—“I—that is, I must explain that things are changed. Colette and I—are to be married—”
“What—what about the chicken?” groaned Fallowby.
“Shut up!” laughed Trent, and slipping his arm through West’s, walked to the stairway.
“The poor little thing,” said West, “just think, not a splinter of firewood for a week and wouldn’t tell me because she thought I needed it for my clay figure. Whew! When I heard it I smashed that smirking clay nymph to pieces, and the rest can freeze and be hanged!” After a moment he added timidly: “Won’t you call on your way down and say bon soir ? It’s No. 17.”
“Yes,” said Trent, and he went out softly closing the door behind.
He stopped on the third landing, lighted a match, scanned the numbers over the row of dingy doors, and knocked at No. 17.
“ C’est toi Georges? ” The door opened.
“Oh, pardon, Monsieur Jack, I thought it was Monsieur West,” then blushing furiously, “Oh, I see you have heard! Oh, thank you so much for your wishes, and I’m sure we love each other very much—and I’m dying to see Sylvia and tell her and—”
“And what?” laughed Trent.
“I am very happy,” she sighed.
“He’s pure gold,” returned Trent, and then gaily: “I want you and George to come and dine with us tonight. It’s a little treat—you see