THE SONG OF THE LARK
Ottenburg bent over the hand she held out to him. "For an uninvited guest, I 've fared very well. You were nice to let me come up. I 'd have been terribly cut up if you 'd sent me away. May I?" He kissed her hand lightly and backed toward the door, still smiling, and promising to keep an eye on Archie. "He can't be trusted at all, Thea. One of the waiters at Martin's worked a Tourainian hare off on him at luncheon yesterday, for seven twenty-five."
Thea broke into a laugh, the deep one he recognized. "Did he have a ribbon on, this hare? Did they bring him in a gilt cage?"
"No,"—Archie spoke up for himself,—"they brought him in a brown sauce, which was very good. He did n't taste very different from any rabbit."
"Probably came from a push-cart on the East Side." Thea looked at her old friend commiseratingly. "Yes, do keep an eye on him, Fred. I had no idea," shaking her head. "Yes, I 'll be obliged to you."
"Count on me!" Their eyes met in a gay smile, and Fred bowed himself out.
