slatternliness! A draggled night bird caught in the aviary of night
court, lips a deep vermilion scar of rouge, hair out of scallop and
dragging at the pins, the too ready laugh dashing itself against what
must be owned a hiccough.

Something congenital and sleeping subcutaneously beneath the surface of
her had scratched through. She was herself, strangely italicized.

A judge regarded her not unkindly. There were two of him, she would keep
thinking, one merging slightly into his prototype.

She stood, gazing up. Around her swam the court-room--rows of faces;
comings and goings within her railed area. And heat--the dizzying, the
exciting heat--and the desire to shake off the some one at her elbow.
That some one was up before her now, in a chair beside the judge, and
his voice was as far away as Archie Sensenbrenner's.

"And she says to me, she says, your Honor, 'Got a girl?'"

"Were those her exact words to you?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"Proceed."

"And I says to her, I says, 'No,' and then she comes up close and says
to me, she says, 'Buy me a drink?'"

"Were those her exact words?"