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Updated: May 25, 2025
Let 'em gossip.... But just the same, he wished that Mirabelle had been willing to keep the engagement a secret. Mr. Mix was sure to encounter Henry, once in a while, at the Citizens Club, and he didn't like to visualize Henry's smile.
Mix and Aunt Mirabelle, of course, and if they've got it in for anybody special, I'm it.
I thought we'd better show our true colours." Mr. Mix stood and gaped at her. Underground politician that he was, he knew that Mirabelle had utterly destroyed the half of his ambition. She had made him a laughing-stock, a buffoon, a political joke. To think that his name was connected with a crusade against short-skirts and dancing Ugh! Not even the average run of church-goers would swallow it.
I was hardly lookin' for such a stubborn streak in Vincent. He's always seemed so mild and modest. But you never can tell. There's no doubt about his having his mind all made up about Mirabelle, and while her name ain't mentioned once he consents to tell me what a perfectly sweet and lovely person she is.
He slammed down the receiver, rattled the hook impetuously, and called Mirabelle's number. "Mirabelle ... good-morning; have you ... No, I'm not cross at you, but Oh! Good-morning, dear.... This is important. Have you seen the Orpheum's ad in the Herald? Isn't that the most barefaced thing you ever saw? Don't we want to rush in and " She interrupted him.
"But you men are all alike, aren't you?" "Is that why you've taken to cradle snatchin'?" says I. Mirabelle executes the wide shutter movement with her eyes and finishes with what she thinks is a Mary Pickford pout. "Really, I don't think I get you," says she. "In other words, meaning what?" "Referring to the boy, Vincent," says I. "Oh!" says she, eying me curious. "Dear little fellow, isn't he?"
You can put out the molasses, and I'll put out the vinegar; and between us, we ought to get somewhere." "We can't fail," said Mr. Mix, sitting on needles. Mirabelle went over to her desk, and searched the pigeon-holes. "I've been told, Theodore, by people I consider very reliable that in August, dear John's money will be coming to me."
"My error," says I. "Course, you didn't know how a few kind words and a little off-hand target practice with the eyes would affect Vincent. How should you? But he's taking it all serious. Uh-huh! Been buying the ring." "What!" says Mirabelle, startled. "A real blue-white, set in platinum," says I. "On the instalments, of course.
It took me less'n three minutes to pump out of Vincent the time and place of this fatal little dinner party he was about to pull off, and shortly after that I had Mr. Dempsey on the wire. Yes, he says he remembers me well enough, on account of my hair. Most of 'em do. "It's a shame you've forgot someone else so quick, though," I adds. "Who's that?" says he. "Mirabelle," says I.
I was still chucklin' over the notion as I breezed out to lunch, but as I pushes out of the express elevator and starts across the arcade toward the Broadway exit I lamps something over by the candy booth that leaves me with my mouth open. There is Vincent hung up against the counter gazin' mushy into the dark dangerous orbs of Mirabelle, the box-trade queen.
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