"This is my sister," said Henry. "She dropped in to see me."
"How do you do?" said the fat man, smiling. "My name's Bartholomew,
Miss Bradin. I know your brother has forgotten it long ago."
Edith laughed politely.
"Well," he continued, "not exactly gorgeous quarters we have here, are
they?"
Edith looked around the room.
"They seem very nice," she replied. "Where do you keep the bombs?"
"The bombs?" repeated Bartholomew, laughing. "That's pretty good--the
bombs. Did you hear her, Henry? She wants to know where we keep the
bombs. Say, that's pretty good."
Edith swung herself onto a vacant desk and sat dangling her feet over
the edge. Her brother took a seat beside her.
"Well," he asked, absent-mindedly, "how do you like New York this
trip?"
"Not bad. I'll be over at the Biltmore with the Hoyts until Sunday.
Can't you come to luncheon to-morrow?"
He thought a moment.
"I'm especially busy," he objected, "and I hate women in groups."
"All right," she agreed, unruffled. "Let's you and me have luncheon
together."
"Very well."
"I'll call for you at twelve."
Bartholomew was obviously anxious to return to his desk, but
apparently considered that it would be rude to leave without some
parting pleasantry.
"Well"--he began awkwardly.
They both turned to him.
"Well, we--we had an exciting time earlier in the evening."
The two men exchanged glances.
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