Round
the room three times he went, and then he dropped on a divan. He gasped,
and mopped his face and forehead, leaving a little island of moisture on
the top of his head untouched. After a moment, he gained breath and
settled down a little. Then he burst out:
"Are you coming to my party, O effendi?
There'll be high jinks, there'll be welcome, there'll be room;
For to-morrow we are pulling stakes for Shendy.
Are you coming to my party, O Nahoum?"
"Say, I guess that's pretty good on the spur of the moment," he wheezed,
and, taking his inseparable note book from his pocket, wrote the
impromptu down. "I guess She'll like that-it rings spontaneous. She'll be
tickled, tickled to death, when she knows what's behind it." He repeated
it with gusto. "She'll dote on it," he added--the person to whom he
referred being the sister of the American Consul, the little widow, "cute
as she can be," of whom he had written to Hylda in the letter which had
brought a crisis in her life. As he returned the note-book to his pocket
a door opened.
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