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"You didn't tell me about Grimsby?" persisted Warren, turning to Helene, with an admiring scrutiny of the girl's charms. "I'm rather interested." "You'll have to ask him, not me. After we took a taxi from the Winter-Garden we had a ride in the Park. So stupid, I thought, at this time of the year. When I woke up, Grimmie was helping me into the entrance of the hotel.
But here endeth the sermon, for I recognize the amiable Pinkie at that other table, where she is studying your face with the malevolence of a cobra." Helene slowly turned her eyes toward the other girl, who now advanced with forced effusiveness. "Oh, my dear, and you're back again today. But where is dear old Grimmie; he is a nice old soul, though a trifle near-sighted.
"You're in the dark of the moon, Grimmie! I couldn't make you out but for those horn rimmed head lights." "Welcome to the joy-parlor, old scout." The greetings of the juvenile buzzards varied only in phraseology: their portent was identical: "Open wine." "Poor Mr Grimsby is so ill this afternoon, but sit down and have something with us," volunteered Helene tremulously.
He frowned and rubbed his forehead, as though to clear his mind for needed concentration. He shook Shirley's arm, and spoke sharply. "Look up; Grimmie. I never saw you feel your wine so early in the afternoon. It was a lucky day for me on Wall Street, so I celebrated myself. You are here earlier than usual. Everybody have some champagne with me."
As he beckoned to the waiter, the red-haired girl bestowed a murderous look upon Helene, who was sniffing some flowers which she had drawn from the vase on the table. "Who's that Jane?" she demanded, her voice-shaking with jealousy. "Grimmie, you act as if you were doped. Introduce us to your swell friend. Wake him, Reg Warren."
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