"Twenty past three," she reported, sententious.
The artist cocked her head, squinted malevolently at her drawing, dipped, and busily scratched once more.
"Scared me," she explained: "coming home so early!"
Sally removed her collar with a wrench and a grunt: "Got a date?"
"Sure; with Sammy--four o'clock."
"Salamander stuff, eh?"
"What do you want--a day like this? I'm half-cooked already, and I guess I can go through a little fire for the sake of a sixty-cent table d' hôte and a trip to Coney. But you needn't worry; it'll be hotter than this before Sammy warms up enough to singe anything. His intentions are so praiseworthy they pain him; he blushes every time he has to recognise the sex question long enough to discuss the delights of monogamy in a two-family house within commuting distance of Prospect Park South."
"You don't mean to say you've got that far along--already!"
"That's the reward of a year's steady angling, hone
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