“Aw, now, Freddy,” he coaxed, “wanna come out with me an’—­an’ have a soda?”

Freddy shook his head.

“Buy ya some candy, too.  Choc’late drops!  An’ how about one o’ them li’l airyplane toys I seen in the window down the street?  Huh?  Or some marbles?  Huh?  Freddy, le’s go buy out this here dinky li’l ole town.  What-ta ya say, huh?  Le’s paint this li’l ole town red!  What-ta ya say, sport?”

Freddy managed a feeble smile.

“How come you so flush, Brudder Johnsing?” he asked in what he considered an imitation of darky talk.  “Mus’ ‘a’ bin rollin’ dem bones!”

“Tha’s a boy!” shouted Bert with a great guffaw.  “There’s a comeback for you!  Game!  Tha’s what I always liked about you, Freddy.  You was always game.”

“I wanna be game!” said Freddy, stiffening his lips.  “You tell Florette.  You write to her I was game.  Will ya, Bert?”

A bell rang.

“Aw, I gotta go dress for supper, Bert.  They dress up for supper here.”

“A’ right, kid.  Then I’ll be goin’——­”

“Goo’-by, Bert.  You tell her, Bert.”

“So long, kid.”

“Will ya tell her I was game, Bert?”

“Aw, she’ll know!”

Madame Margarita d’Avala found herself in a situation all the more annoying because it was so absurd.  She had promised to sing at the Misses Blair’s School for the benefit of a popular charity, and she had motored out from New York, leaving her maid to do some errands and to follow by train.  But it was eight o’clock and the great Madame d’Avala found herself alone in the prim guest room of the Misses Blair’s School, with her bag and dressing case, to be sure, but with no one to help her into the complicated draperies of her gown.  There was no bell.  She could not very well run down the corridor, half nude, shouting for help, especially as she had no idea of where the Misses Blair kept either themselves or their servants.  The Misses Blair had been so fatiguingly polite on her arrival.  Perhaps she had been a little abrupt in refusing their many offers of service and saying that she wanted to rest quite alone.  Now, of course, they were afraid to come near her.  And, besides, they would think that her maid was with her by this time.  They had given orders to have Madame d’Avala’s maid shown up to her as soon as she arrived, and of course their maid would be too stupid to know that Madame d’Avala’s maid had never come.

Margarita d’Avala bit her lips and paced the floor, looked out of the window, opened the door, but there was no one in sight.  Well, no help for it.  She must try to get into the gown alone.  She stepped into it and became entangled in the lace; stepped out again, shook the dress angrily and pushed it on over her head, giving a little impatient scream as she rumpled her hair.  Then she reached up and back, straining her arms to push the top snap of the corsage into place.  But with the quiet glee of