"And now what are you doing here?" I asked.
"I've come down from the line to get some new dresses for Queenie,"
he replied. "She--he, that is--is absolutely in rags, bursts a pair
of corsets and a pair of silk stockings every performance, very
expensive item."
I had better explain here and now that Queenie is the leading lady in
Mervyn's troupe. She--he, that is--started her--his--military career
as an artillery driver, but was discovered to be the possessor of a
very shrill falsetto voice and dedicated to female impersonations
forthwith.
"She--he--is round at the dressmaker's now," Mervyn went on,
"wrestling with half a dozen _hysterical_ mannequins. I'm getting
her--him, I should say--up regardless. Listen. Dainty ninon
georgette outlined with chenile stitching. Charmeuse overtunic,
embroidered with musquash and skunk pom-poms. Crêpe de Chine undies
interwoven with blue baby ribbon, camis----"
"Stop!" I thundered. "Do you want me to blush myself to death? I am
but a rough soldier."
Mervyn apologised, wrapped himself round another ice and asked me how
I was amusing myself in Tiber-town.
Having first ascertained that there were no enemy agents secreted
under the table or among the potted palms, I unburdened my soul to
him concerning Wilbur and the coups that never came off.
He stared at me for a few moments, his eyes twinkling, then he leaned
over the table.
"My active brain has evolved a be-autiful plan," said he. "It's
yours for another ice."