"Hello,
Max," said Maud in a fresh, condescending way. "How's business?"
"Slow. Always slack on Sundays. How goes it with you, Maudie?"
"So--so. I manage to pick up a living in spite of the damn
chippies. I don't see why the hell they don't go into the
business regular and make something out of it, instead of
loving free. I'm down on a girl that's neither the one thing
nor the other. This is my lady friend, Miss Queenie." She
turned laughingly to Susan. "I never asked your last name."
"Brown."
"My, what a strange name!" cried Maud. Then, as the proprietor
laughed with the heartiness of tradesman at good customer's
jest, she said, "Going to set 'em up, Max?"
He pressed a button and rang a bell loudly. The responding
waiter departed with orders for a whiskey and two lithias.
Maud explained to Susan:
"Max used to be a prize-fighter. He was middleweight champion."
"I've been a lot of things in my days," said Max with pride.
"So I've heard," joked Maud. "They say they've got your
picture at headquarters."
"That's neither here nor there," said Max surlily. "Don't get
too flip." Susan drank her whiskey as soon as it came, and the
glow rushed to her ghastly face. Said Max with great politeness:
"You're having a little neuralgia, ain't you? I see your face
is swhole some."
"Yes," said Susan. "Neuralgia." Maud laughed hilariously.
Susan herself had ceased to brood over the incident.
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