. For a second Mirabelle
arches her plucked eyebrows and puckers her lips coy as if she was
lettin' on to be shocked. Then she glances around cautious to see if the
coast is clear, reaches out and pats Vincent tender on the cheek and
whispers something in his ear.

A minute later Mirabelle is smilin' mechanical at a fat man who's
stopped to buy a box of chocolate peppermints and Vincent is swingin'
past me with his chin up and his eyes bright. It don't take any seventh
son work to guess that Vincent has made a date. If it had been anybody
else that wouldn't have meant nothing at all to me, but as it is I can't
help feelin' that this was my cue. Just how or why I don't stop to
figure out, but I falls in behind and trails along.

Vincent should have been headin' for the dairy lunch, but he starts in
the other direction and after followin' him for five blocks I sees him
dive into a jewelry store. Maybe that don't get a gasp out of me, too.
Looks like our little Vincent was some speedy performer, don't it? And
sure enough, by rubberin' in through the door, I can see a clerk haulin'
out a tray of rings. Think of that! Vincent.

He must have been in there before and looked over the stock, for inside
of ten minutes out he comes again. And by makin' a quick maneuver I
manages to bump into him as he's leavin' the front door with the little
white box in his fist.

"Well, well!" says I. "What's all this mean, old son? Been buyin' out
the spark shop? I expect somebody's going to get a weddin' present, eh?"

"Not--not exactly," says Vincent, his cheeks pinkin' up and his right
hand slidin' toward his coat pocket.

"Oh, ho!" says I, grabbin' the wrist and exposin' the little square
package. "A ring or I'm a poor guesser. And it's for the sweetest girl
in the world, ain't it?"

"It is," says Vincent, just a bit defiant.

"Congratulations, old man," says I, poundin' him friendly on the
shoulder. "I don't suppose I could guess who, could I?"

"I--I don't think you could," says Vincent.

"Then it's my blow to luncheon--reg'lar chop-house feed in honor of the
big event," says I. "Come along, Vincent, while I order a bottle of one
and a half per cent. to drink to your luck."

Course, he can't very well get away from that, me being one of his
bosses, as you might say. But he acts a little uneasy.

"You see, sir," says he, "it--it isn't quite settled."

"I get you," says I. "Going to spring it on her tonight, eh?"

He admits