And as to the top hat that
turns into an accordion and produces much melody, she was ecstatic.
At after-theater supper he talked of Theresa and South Beach, of
Charley Carpenter and Morton--Morton--Morton.
They sat, at midnight, on the steps of the house in Tavistock Place.
"I do know you now, "she mused. "It's curious how any two babes
in a strange-enough woods get acquainted. You _are_ a lonely
child, aren't you?" Her voice was mother-soft. "We will play
just a little--"
"I wish I had some games to teach. But you know so much."
"And I'm a perfect beauty, too, aren't I?" she said, gravely.
"Yes, you are!" stoutly.
"You would be loyal.... And I need some one's admiration....
Mostly, Paris and London hold their sides laughing at poor Istra."
He caught her hand. "Oh, don't! They _must_ 'preciate you.
I'd like to kill anybody that didn't!"
"Thanks." She gave his hand a return pressure and hastily
withdrew her own. "You'll be good to some sweet pink face....
And I'll go on being discontented.
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