"Well, there's one person who does--yours truly. If you don't believe it,
come to the Albion and see."

"There ain't another like you, hon. There's not your match from the
Rockies to the Pacific."

"Oh, old blarney!" she cried, now joyous, and, giving him a pat on the
shoulder, moved about collecting supper. "Sit tight there while I get you
a bite. I've some olives that'll make you think you're back among the
greasers."

The supper came from divers places--the window sill, the top bureau
drawer, the closet shelf. Beer and sardines were its chief features, with
black olives soaked in oil and garlic, cheese straws taken from a corset
box, and ripe figs oozing through their paper bag.

They ate hungrily without ceremony, wiping their fingers on the towel she
had spread for a cloth. As they munched they swapped their news--his
failure at selling the ledge, her success in "The Zingara." He listened
to that with avid attention.

"Can you stay and see me tomorrow night?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"'Fraid not. I got a date with a feller in Dutch Flat for tomorrow
afternoon."

"About the prospect?"