She had never asked anything like this
before. It had the flavour of a totally new proposition. But he was a
game sport.
"All right," he said. "You be ready when I come at seven. None of
this 'wait two minutes till I primp an hour or two' kind of business,
now, Dele."
"I'll be ready," said his wife, calmly.
At seven she descended the stone steps in the Pompeian bowling alley
at the side of "Big Jim" Dougherty. She wore a dinner gown made of
a stuff that the spiders must have woven, and of a color that a
twilight sky must have contributed. A light coat with many admirably
unnecessary capes and adorably inutile ribbons floated downward
from her shoulders. Fine feathers do make fine birds; and the only
reproach in the saying is for the man who refuses to give up his
earnings to the ostrich-tip industry.
"Big Jim" Dougherty was troubled. There was a being at his side whom
he did not know. He thought of the sober-hued plumage that this bird
of paradise was accustomed to wear in her cage, and this winged
revelation puzzled him. In some way she reminded him of the Delia
Cullen that he had married four years before. Shyly and rather
awkwardly he stalked at her right hand.
"After dinner I'll take you back home, Dele," said Mr. Dougherty,
"and then I'll drop back up to Seltzer's with the boys. You can have
swell chuck to-night if you want it. I made a winning on Anaconda
yesterday; so you can go as far as you like."
Mr.
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