He had come as near as he dared to taunting Querida and, afraid at the last moment, had turned the edge of it on himself.
Querida lighted a cigarette and blew a whiff of smoke toward the ceiling.
"I've an idea," he said, lazily, "that somebody is trying to marry her." "Forget it," observed Allaire in contempt.

"She wouldn't stand for the sort who marry her kind.

She'll land hard on her neck one of these days, and the one best bet will be some long-faced Botticelli with heavenly principles and the moral stability of a tumbler pigeon.

Then there'll be hell to pay; but _he_ will get over it and she'll get aboard the toboggan.

That's the way it ends, Querida." Querida sipped his coffee and glanced out of the club window.