Rita is a good sport," said Neville.
"I hope so.

It's an important picture.

Really, Kelly, it's great stuff--a still, turquoise-tinted pool among wet rocks; ebb tide; a corking little mermaid caught in a pool left by the receding waves--all tones and subtle values," he declared, waving his arm.
"Don't paint things in the air with your thumb," said Neville, coldly.
"No wonder Rita is nervous." "Rita is nervous," said Ogilvy, "because she's been on a bat and supped somewhere until the coy and rosy dawn chased her homeward.

And your pretty paragon, Miss West, was with the party--" "What ?" said Neville, sharply.
"Sure thing! Harry Annan, Rita, Burleson, Valerie--and I don't know who else.

They feasted somewhere east of Coney--where the best is like the wuerst--and ultimately became full of green corn, clams, watermelon, and assorted fidgets....