"Oh, yes, I'm sure they'll have to have better service," said Fox.
("Young man, I don't know much about you, but I don't believe you're the right kind of person for Madeline to go with. Anyway, it's time you went home.")
"Oh, yes, sure, you bet. Lot better service."
("I know I'm staying too long, and I know you know it, but I don't care!")
It seemed impossible that Mrs. Fox should endure his stolid persistence. He used thought-forms, will-power, and hypnotism, and when he rose, defeated, she was still there, extremely placid. They said good-by not too warmly. Madeline took him to the door; for an exhilarating half-minute he had her alone.
"I wanted so much—I wanted to talk to you!"
"I know. I'm sorry. Some time!" she muttered.
He kissed her. It was a tempestuous kiss, and very sweet.
Fudge parties, skating parties, sleighing parties, a literary party with the guest of honor a lady journalist who did the social page for the Zenith Advocate-Times—Madeline leaped into an orgy of jocund but extraordinarily tiring entertainments, and Martin obediently and smolderingly followed her. She appeared to have trouble in getting enough men, and to the literary evening Martin dragged the enraged Clif Clawson. Clif grumbled, "This is the damnedest zoo of sparrows I ever did time in," but he bore off treasure—he had heard Madeline call Martin by her favorite name of "Martykins." That was very valuable. Clif called him Martykins. Clif told others to call him Martykins. Fatty Pfaff and Irving Watters called him Martykins. And when Martin wanted to go to sleep, Clif croaked:
"Yuh, you'll probably marry her. She's a dead shot. She can hit a smart young M.D. at ninety paces. Oh, you'll have one fine young time going on with science after that skirt sets you at tonsil-snatching. . . . She's one of these literary birds. She knows all about lite'ature except maybe how to read. . . . She's not so bad-looking, now. She'll get fat, like her Ma."
Martin said that which was necessary, and he concluded,
