The public table is big enough for everybody." Allaire thought a moment, slowly caressing his foxy hair.
"After all," he said with a nervous snicker, "you needn't be afraid of anybody.

Nobody can paint like you....

But I'd like to get a look in, Querida.

I've got to make a little money in one way or another--" he added impudently--"and if I can't paint well enough to sting them, there's always the chance of marrying one of 'em." Querida laughed: "Any man can always marry any woman.

There's no trick in getting any _wife_ you want." "Sure," grinned Allaire; "a wife is a cinch; it's the front row that keeps good men guessing." He glanced at Querida, his gray-green eyes brimming with an imprudent malice he could not even now deny himself--"Also the backs of the magazines keep one guessing," he added, carelessly; "and I've the patience of a tom-cat, myself." Querida's beautifully pencilled eyebrows were raised interrogatively.
"Oh, I'll admit that the little West girl kept me sitting on back fences until some other fellow threw a bottle at me," said Allaire with a disagreeable laugh.