more what time I get home at night," he said proudly.
"How old are you? I don't think Mrs. Nature told me."
"Thirty."
She had to have another Scotch on that one, just one, and he joined her. Then they ordered dinner. The Scotch had made her brave enough to feel she could play Sarah Bernhardt, and she decided to have a terrible headache right after dinner.
"I met a famous author when I was in Em-ope," he said brightly, as if it had just occurred to him.
You see, she thought, I was wrong. I should have given him a
chance. He's probably got some gay, Continental life behind him that I never even suspected. "Oh? Who?"
"Ah . . . ah, what's his name? Oh, Ernest Hemingway. I was sitting in a little cafe in Spain with some friends and he was sitting at another table." He colored slightly. "I . . . asked him for his autograph."
"And what happened?"
"He gave it to me."
She looked at him expectantly, but it seemed that was the end of his story about the meeting with the author. Good grief, she thought, even Mr. Shalimar can do better than that.
The restaurant where they were was, unfortunately, an eflBcient one that specialized in getting diners out in time for the theater. Besides that, they had been the first ones in the dining room. When they were drinking their coffee Caroline looked at her watch expecting it to be at least nine o'clock (of the following week) and found to her horror that it was only six-thirty. The Scotch had worn off and she didn't quite have the courage to act sick. Could she say, Oh, I'm just in time for the seven-o'clock express?
"I guess anyone who had you working for him would be very lucky," Alvin was saying, with moist admiration in his eyes. She felt too sorry for him to dislike him, or at least, to hurt his feelings. All she wanted was to go home, go home, go home—home seemed like a refuge, a beautiful place where she hadn't been for such a long time—and to go home was such a simple thing, but impossible for her right now.
"I'd like an after-dinner brandy," she said.
"Oh?" He seemed startled. Then he rallied. "Two brandies, Miss."
They served the brandy in large, lovely double brandy glasses. "Tell me about the mannequin business," she said. "I've talked enough about publishing."
You would have thought she had asked him to stand up and give an address before a crowd of hostile hundreds. He seemed to be searching his mind frantically. "Well, it's just the family business," he said at last. "It's a . . . family business. Just the family."
"But what do you doF' Spy? Put microfilm in their necks? she thought.
"We make mannequins for store windows. It must seem very dull to you."
"Oh, no."
"Well, you have . . . such an exciting life and everything. All those authors."
"Whatever you really like is exciting," she said.
"Do you want to do that always, or do you want to get married?"
"Can't I do both?"
He looked nonplused. "I guess so. I never thought of it that way."
"I'd like another brandy," she said. "And then I have to go home because there's a manuscript I must read for the office tomorrow."
"It's so early," he protested.
"It's a very large manuscript."
"One brandy, please, Miss. And the check."
If there's anything I hate, she thought, it's drinking alone while someone looks at me the way he's doing now. If there's anything duller than drinking with someone you don't like it's drinking alone and being watched by someone you don't like. "Aren't you going to join me? Please?"
"Oh . . . all right."
He downed the entire glass of brandy in three gulps, with that same medicine-taking look on his face, and then suddenly the wry look smoothed out and he blinked several times. "The second one's not so bad," he said. "You get used to the taste." He raised his arm and with an astonishing show of bravado snapped his fingers for the waitress.
I hate people who do that, she thought, relieved to have something definite to hold against him that really was his fault and not just an
"How old are you? I don't think Mrs. Nature told me."
"Thirty."
She had to have another Scotch on that one, just one, and he joined her. Then they ordered dinner. The Scotch had made her brave enough to feel she could play Sarah Bernhardt, and she decided to have a terrible headache right after dinner.
"I met a famous author when I was in Em-ope," he said brightly, as if it had just occurred to him.
You see, she thought, I was wrong. I should have given him a
chance. He's probably got some gay, Continental life behind him that I never even suspected. "Oh? Who?"
"Ah . . . ah, what's his name? Oh, Ernest Hemingway. I was sitting in a little cafe in Spain with some friends and he was sitting at another table." He colored slightly. "I . . . asked him for his autograph."
"And what happened?"
"He gave it to me."
She looked at him expectantly, but it seemed that was the end of his story about the meeting with the author. Good grief, she thought, even Mr. Shalimar can do better than that.
The restaurant where they were was, unfortunately, an eflBcient one that specialized in getting diners out in time for the theater. Besides that, they had been the first ones in the dining room. When they were drinking their coffee Caroline looked at her watch expecting it to be at least nine o'clock (of the following week) and found to her horror that it was only six-thirty. The Scotch had worn off and she didn't quite have the courage to act sick. Could she say, Oh, I'm just in time for the seven-o'clock express?
"I guess anyone who had you working for him would be very lucky," Alvin was saying, with moist admiration in his eyes. She felt too sorry for him to dislike him, or at least, to hurt his feelings. All she wanted was to go home, go home, go home—home seemed like a refuge, a beautiful place where she hadn't been for such a long time—and to go home was such a simple thing, but impossible for her right now.
"I'd like an after-dinner brandy," she said.
"Oh?" He seemed startled. Then he rallied. "Two brandies, Miss."
They served the brandy in large, lovely double brandy glasses. "Tell me about the mannequin business," she said. "I've talked enough about publishing."
You would have thought she had asked him to stand up and give an address before a crowd of hostile hundreds. He seemed to be searching his mind frantically. "Well, it's just the family business," he said at last. "It's a . . . family business. Just the family."
"But what do you doF' Spy? Put microfilm in their necks? she thought.
"We make mannequins for store windows. It must seem very dull to you."
"Oh, no."
"Well, you have . . . such an exciting life and everything. All those authors."
"Whatever you really like is exciting," she said.
"Do you want to do that always, or do you want to get married?"
"Can't I do both?"
He looked nonplused. "I guess so. I never thought of it that way."
"I'd like another brandy," she said. "And then I have to go home because there's a manuscript I must read for the office tomorrow."
"It's so early," he protested.
"It's a very large manuscript."
"One brandy, please, Miss. And the check."
If there's anything I hate, she thought, it's drinking alone while someone looks at me the way he's doing now. If there's anything duller than drinking with someone you don't like it's drinking alone and being watched by someone you don't like. "Aren't you going to join me? Please?"
"Oh . . . all right."
He downed the entire glass of brandy in three gulps, with that same medicine-taking look on his face, and then suddenly the wry look smoothed out and he blinked several times. "The second one's not so bad," he said. "You get used to the taste." He raised his arm and with an astonishing show of bravado snapped his fingers for the waitress.
I hate people who do that, she thought, relieved to have something definite to hold against him that really was his fault and not just an
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