"
"G'wan!" George coaxed. "Feed it to me: I'll eat it right outa your
hand. Whatcha been doin' with yourself all night, P.S.?"
"I've been Day of Days-ing myself, George."
"Ah, can the kiddin', P.S. Come through! Whadja do?"
"Broke every Commandment in the Decalogue, George, barring one or two
of the more indelicate ones; kicked the laws of chance and probability
into a cocked hat; fractured most of the Municipal Ordinances--and--let
me see--oh, yes!--dislocated the Long Arm of Coincidence so badly that
all of its subsequent performances are going to seem stiff and lacking
in that air of spontaneity without which--"
"My Gawd!" George despaired--"he's off again on that hardy annual
talkalogue of his!... Lis'n, P.S.--"
"Call me Perceval," P. Sybarite suggested pleasantly.
"_Wh-at!_"
"Let it be Perceval hereafter, George--always. I grant you free
permission."
"But I thought you said--"
"So I did--a few hours ago. Now I--well, I rather like it. It makes
all the difference who calls you that sort of name first, and what her
voice is like."
"One of us," George protested with profound conviction, "is plumb
loony in the head!"
"It's me," said P. Sybarite humbly: "I admit it.... And the worst of
it is--I like it! So would you if you'd been through a Day of Days."
George let that pass; for the moment he was otherwise engaged in vain
speculation as to the appearance of a phenomenon rather rare in the
calendar of that West Thirty-eighth Street boarding-house.
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