She smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his hands buried in his overcoat, his blonde locks bobbing on his youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips.  He turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands. him.  “He’s all right!  He didn’t mean anything!  Let it go!  He’s a good fellah!”

“Din’ he insul’ me?” asked the man earnestly.

“No,” said they.  “Of course he didn’t!  He’s all right!”

“Sure he didn’ insul’ me?” demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his voice.

“No, no!  We know him!  He’s a good fellah.  He didn’t mean anything.”

“Well, zen,” said the man, resolutely, “I’m go’ ’pol’gize!”

When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor.

“Girlsh shed you insul’ me!  I shay damn lie!  I ’pol’gize!”

“All right,” said the waiter.

The man sat down.  He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody.

“Nell, I allus trea’s yeh shquare, din’ I?  Yeh likes me, don’ yehs, Nell?  I’m goo’ f’ler?”

“Sure,” said the woman of brilliance and audacity.

“Yeh knows I’m stuck on yehs, don’ yehs, Nell?”

“Sure,” she repeated, carelessly.

Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman.

“Yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, ’cause I’m stuck on yehs, Nell, damn’t, I—­I’m stuck on yehs, Nell—­buy drinksh—­damn’t—­we’re havin’ heluva time—­w’en anyone trea’s me ri’—­I—­damn’t, Nell—­we’re havin’ heluva—­time.”

Shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest.

The women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. 
Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor.

The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts.

“Come ahn,” cried one, starting up angrily, “let’s get out of here.”

The woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket.  A guttural snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him.

She laughed.  “What a damn fool,” she said, and went.

The smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little compartment, obscuring the way out.  The smell of oil, stifling in its intensity, pervaded the air.  The wine from an overturned glass dripped softly down upon the blotches on the man’s neck.

She smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his hands buried in his overcoat, his blonde locks bobbing on his youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips.  He turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands.