Course, everyone stops chatterin’ and looks her way.  No wonder!  You’d thought she was havin’ a fit.  Over rushes Virgil, ladle in hand.

“My dear Inez!” says he.  “What is it?  A fishbone?”

“Monster!” she bowls.  “Deceiver!  Leave me, never let me see your face again!  Oh—­oh!  Cheese!  Six children!  Oh—­oh!” With that she tumbles over on Whity and turns purple in the face.

Say, it was some sensation we had there for a few minutes; but after they’d sprinkled her face, and rubbed her wrists, and poured a couple of fingers of brandy into her, she revives.  And the first thing she catches sight of is Virgie, standin’ there lookin’ puzzled, still holdin’ the soup ladle.

“Monster!” she hisses at him.  “I know all—­all!  And I quit you forever!”

With that she dashes for the cloakroom, grabs her opera wrap, and beats it for the elevator.  Course, that busts up the show, and inside of half an hour everybody but us has left, and most of ’em went out snickerin’.

“I—­I don’t understand it at all,” says Virgie, rubbin’ his eyes dazed.  “She was talking with you, wasn’t she, Friend Whity?  Was it something you said about me?”

“Possibly,” says Whity, “I may have mentioned your cheese factories; and I’m not sure but what I didn’t invent a family for you.  Just as a joke, of course.  You don’t mind, I hope?”

And at that I was dead sure someone was goin’ to be slapped on the wrist.  But, say, all Virgie does is swallow hard a couple of times; and then, as the full scheme of the plot seems to sink in, he beams mushy.

“Mind?  Why, my dear boy,” says he, “you are my deliverer!  I owe you more than I can ever express.  Really, you know, that ridiculous old person has been the bane of my existence for the last three weeks.  She has fairly haunted me, spoiled all my receptions, and—­disturbed me greatly.  Ever since I met her in Rome last winter she has been at it.  Of course I have tried to be nice to her, as I am to everyone who—­er—­who might help.  But I almost fancy she had the idea that I would—­ah—­marry her.  Really, I believe she did.  Thank you a thousand times, Whity, for your joke!  If she comes back, tell her I have two wives, a dozen.  And have some cigars—­oh, fill your pockets, my boy.  And here—­the photos showing me in my monk’s costume.  Be sure to drop in at my next tea.  I’ll send you word.  Good night, and bless you!”

He didn’t push us out.  He just held the door open and patted us on the back as we went through.  And the next thing we knew we was down on the sidewalk.

“Double crossed!” groans Whity.  “Smothered in mush!”

“As a plotter, Whity,” says I, “you’re a dub.  But if you gunked it one way, you drew a consolation the other.  At this stage of the game I guess I’m commissioned by a certain party to hand over to you a small token of his esteem.”

“Eh?” says Whity.  “Twenty?  What for?”