a way, Torchy," says she. "You don't know
how happy you've made them. Now tell me all about it."

And say, I couldn't convince her I hadn't done a blamed thing but shoot
a little hot air, not after I'd nearly gone hoarse explainin'.

"Oh, but you will," says she. "You'll do something."

Who could help tryin', after that? I tackles the agent with a
proposition that Battou should work out the back rent, but he's a
fish-eyed gink.

"Say," he growls out past his cigar, "if we tried to lug along every
panhandling artist that wanted to graft rent off us, we'd be in fine
shape by the end of the year, wouldn't we? Forget it."

"How about his art stuff?" I asks Vee, when I got back.

"Oh, utterly hopeless," says she. "But one can't tell him so. He doesn't
know how bad it is. I suppose he is all right as a wall decorator. Do
you know, Torchy, they must be in serious straits. Those two little
rooms of theirs are almost bare, and I'm sure they've been living on
cheese and crackers for days. What do you think I've done?"

"Sent 'em an anonymous ham by parcels post?" says I.

"No," says Vee. "I'm going to have them down to-night for the rehearsal
dinner."

"Fine dope!" says I. "And if they survive bein' practiced on----"

But Vee has skipped off to the kitchenette without waitin' to hear the
rest.

"Is this to be a reg'lar dress rehearsal?" I asks, when I comes home
again. "Should I doll up regardless?"

Yes, she says I must. I was just strugglin' into my dinner coat, too,
when the bell rings. I expect Vee had forgot to tell 'em that
six-forty-five was our reg'lar hour. And say, M. Leon was right there
with the boulevard costume--peg-top trousers, fancy vest, flowin' tie,
and a silk tile. As for Madame Battou, she's all in gray and white.

I'd towed 'em into the studio, and was havin' 'em shed their things,
when Vee bounces in out of the kitchenette and announces impetuous:

"Oh, Torchy! We've made a mess of everything. That horrid leg of lamb
won't do anything but sozzle away in the pan; the string-beans have been
scorched; and--oh, goodness!"

She'd caught sight of our guests.

"Please don't mind," says Vee. "We're not very good cooks, Bertha and I.
We--we've spoiled everything, I guess."

She's tryin' to be cheerful over it. And she sure is a picture, standin'
there with a big apron coverin' up most of her evenin' dress, and her
upper lip a bit trembly.

"Buck up, Vee," says I. "Better luck next time. Chuck