“Got your sailin’ orders, ain’t you, Martin?” says I.  “You know we collect a kid first.”

“Oh, yes, Sir,” says he.  “Madison avenue.  I have the number, Sir.”  Just like that you know.  “I have the number, Sir”—­and more business with the cap brim.  Awful bore, ain’t it, specially right there on Broadway with so many folks to hear?

“Very well,” says I, languid.  Then it’s me lollin’ back on the limousine cushions and starin’ haughty at the poor dubs we graze by as they try to cross the street.  Gee, but it’s some different when you’re inside gazin’ out, than when you’re outside gawpin’ in!  And even if you don’t have the habit reg’lar, but are only there just for the time bein’, you’re bound to get that chesty feelin’ more or less.  I always do.  About the third block I can look slant-eyed at the cheap skates ridin’ in hired taxis and curl the lip of scorn.

I’ve noticed, though, that when I work up feelin’s like that there’s bound to be a bump comin’ to me soon.  But I wasn’t lookin’ for this one until it landed.  Martin pulls up at the curb, and I hops out, rushes up the steps, and rings the bell.

“Little Miss Gladys ready?” says I to the maid.

She sort of humps her eyebrows and remarks that she’ll see.  With that she waves me into the reception hall, and pretty soon comes back to report that Miss Gladys will be down in a few minutes.  She had the real skirt notion of time, that maid.  For more’n a solid half-hour I squirms around on a chair wonderin’ what could be happenin’ up in the nursery.  Then all of a sudden a chatter of goodbys comes from the upper hall, a maid trots down and hands me a suitcase, and then appears this languishin’ vision in the zippy French lid and the draped silk wrap.

It’s one of these dinky brimless affairs, with skyrocket trimmin’ on the back, and it fits down over her face like a mush bowl over Baby Brother; but under the rim you could detect some chemical blonde hair and a pair of pink ears ornamented with pearl pendants the size of fruit knife handles.  She has a complexion to match, one of the kind that’s laid on in layers, with the drugstore red only showing through the whitewash in spots, and the lips touched up brilliant.  Believe me, it was some artistic makeup!

[Illustration:  Believe me, it was some artistic makeup!]

Course, I frames this up for the friend; so I asks innocent, “Excuse me, but when is little Miss Gladys comin’?”

“Why, I’m Gladys!” comes from between the carmine streaks.

I gawps at her, then at the maid, and then back at the Ziegfeld vision again.  “But, see here!” I goes on.  “Mr. Robert he says how——­”

“Yes, I know,” she breaks in.  “He ’phoned.  The stupid old thing couldn’t come himself, and he’s sent one of his young men.  That’s much nicer.  Torchy, didn’t he say?  How odd!  But come along.  Don’t stand there staring.  Good-by, Marie.  You must do my hair this way again sometime.”