Her hair was several shades off
a legal yellow and she was dressed! She would have made handsome loot,
believe me--aigrette, bracelets, rings, dog collar, gold-mesh bag,
vanity case--Oh, you could see at a glance that she was one of them
Broadway social favourites you read about. And both grouchy, like I
said. He scowled till you knew he'd just love to beat a crippled
step-child to death, and she--well, her work wasn't so coarse; she kept
her mad down better. She set there as nice and sweet as a pet scorpion.
"'A scrap,' I says to myself, 'and they've only half finished. She's
threatened to quit and he, the cowardly dog, has dared her to.' Plain
enough. The waiter knew it soon as I did when he come to take their
order. Wouldn't speak to each other. Talked through him; fought it out
to something different for each one. Couldn't even agree on the same
kind of cocktail. Both slamming the waiter--before they fought the order
to a finish each had wanted to call the head waiter, only the other one
stopped it.
"So I rubbered awhile, trying to figure out why such folks want to
finish up their fights in a restaurant, and then I forgot 'em, looking
at some other persons that come in.
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