BUtterfield 8 by John O'Hara Page A

her, and he knew what he could do with it. Not wishing to be left alone with the man, Liggett drank the rest of his highball, paid his bill and went to another speakeasy, next door.
    The first person he saw was Gloria, all dressed up in a very smart little suit. She gave him a blank look. She was with a young man and a pretty young girl. He went over and shook hands and Gloria introduced him to the other people and finally asked him to sit down for a second, that they were just leaving.
    “Oh, I thought we were going to have dinner here,” said Miss Day. “I’m really getting hungry.”
    There was a silence for the benefit of Miss Day, who was being tacitly informed by everyone at the table that she should have known better than to say that. “Are you waiting for someone?” said Liggett.
    “Not exactly,” said Gloria.
    “I really feel like an awful stupid and rude and all when you were so kind to invite us for dinner,” said Miss Day, “but really, Miss Wandrous, I’d of rather stayed at the Brevoort and ate there because I was hungry then. I—” Then she shut up.
    “I think we ought to go,” said Mr. Brunner. “Gloria, we’ll take a rain check on that dinner.” He had not been drinking, and he had a kind of surly-sober manner that men sometimes get who are temporarily on the wagon but usually good drinkers. Liggett quickly stood up before they changed their minds. Miss Day apparently had postponed her appetite because she got up too.
    When they had gone Liggett said: “I’ve been trying to get you. I phoned all over and I was going to look everywhere in New York till I did find you. What are you drinking?”
    “Rye and plain water.”
    “Rye and plain water, and Scotch and soda for me. Do you want to eat here?”
    “Am I having dinner with you?”
    “Well, aren’t you?”
    “I don’t know. What do you want that you’ve been calling me all over, as you put it, although I don’t know where you’d be apt to call me except home.”
    “And the Manger.”
    “That’s not funny. I was drunk last night. That won’t happen again.”
    “Yes. It
must
happen again. It’s got to. Listen, I don’t know how to begin.”
    “Then don’t, if it’s a proposition. Because if it’s a proposition I’m not interested.” She knew she was lying, for she was interested in almost any proposition; interested in hearing it, at least. But so far she could not tell which way he was headed. He had said nothing to indicate that he had discovered her theft of the coat, but his avoiding that topic might be tactical and only that. She resolved not to say anything about it until he did, but to wait for the first crack that would indicate that he wanted the coat back. She was not at this point prepared to take a stand about the coat. Later, maybe, but not now.
    He looked down at his hands, which were making “Here’s the Church, here’s the steeple, open the door and there’s all the people.”
    “Do you know what I want?” he said.
    It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, the mink coat. She said, “Why, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
    He reached in his pocket and brought out the check for the bundle he had left at Grand Central. “You,” he said.
    “What’s this?” she said, taking the check.
    “The rye is for Miss Wandrous. Scotch for me,” said Liggett to the waiter who had sneaked up with the drinks. When he went away Liggett went on: “That’s for your dress and coat. You got the money I left. Was it enough?”
    “Yes. What do you mean you want me?”
    “Well, I should think that would be plain enough. I want you. I want to—if I get you an apartment will you live in it?”
    “Oh,” she said. “Well, I live at home with my family.”
    “You can tell them you have a job and you want to be uptown.”
    “But I didn’t say I wanted to live uptown. What makes you want me for your mistress? I didn’t know you had a mistress, I know that gag, so don’t you say it.”
    “I wasn’t going