Really I don't." "Of course not," assented Pennoyer.
"Really I don't." "Of course not." "Listen!" exclaimed Grief, who was near the door.

"There he comes now." Somebody approached, whistling an air from "Traviata," which rang loud and clear, and low and muffled, as the whistler wound among the intricate hallways.

This air was as much a part of Hawker as his coat.
The _spaghetti_ had arrived at a critical stage.

Florinda gave it her complete attention.
When Hawker opened the door he ceased whistling and said gruffly, "Hello!" "Just the man!" said Grief.

"Go after the potato salad, will you, Billie?
There's a good boy! Wrinkles has refused." "He can't carry the salad with those gloves," interrupted Florinda, raising her eyes from her work and contemplating them with displeasure.
"Hang the gloves!" cried Hawker, dragging them from his hands and hurling them at the divan.