"Well ?" "Take it and come right back." "You disappoint me, Funny-face.

Go to the piano and hit the notes.
That's all you're fit for." It was a baby grand, much out of tune, but Howard, bulging over the stool, made it sound like an orchestra,--a cabaret orchestra, and ran from Grieg to Jerome Kern and back to Gounod, syncopating everything with the gusto and the sense of time that is almost peculiar to a colored professional.

Then he suddenly burst into song and sang about a baby in the soft round high baritone of all men who run to fat and with the same quite charming sympathy.

A useful, excellent fellow, amazingly unself-conscious and gifted.
Martin was infinitely content to listen and lie back in a deep straw chair with a pipe between his teeth, the memories of good evenings at Yale curling up in his smoke.

And Tootles, thinking and thinking, sat, Puck-like, at his feet, with her warm shoulders against his knees.