The girl who did the speaking in the opening of this story, was one of the first to appear through the stage entrance to the large room, where classes met in a motley crew. She had caught the gleam of the small brown eyes of the man in the front box, and as she passed off the stage, she plainly heard him say, “Go down to the wine room.”
“Go on and tell me,” he nodded, as the girl said, “Manhattan,” to the inquiring look of the waiter, who had rushed to the table at a signal from the man.
“No,” she said doggedly, “I don’t want to talk; bring me a package of cigarettes, Otto,” she said, as the waiter moved away.
“It’s no use; what do you want to know for?” Then the lines around her mouth became hard, while she tapped the heel of her dancing slippers on the floor. She may have been pretty; she may have been good and pure at some time, but the deep laid wrinkles, the flaring nostrils and bleared eyes told of the long days of hardships and nights of dissipation.
“Oh, no matter,” said the man, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I just thought you might have known better days; I have, and thought we might talk of other times, besides,” said the man leisurely, “I used to be in the profession.”
“What line, specialty or legit.?” asked the girl, with a show of interest.
“Oh, most anything, heavies principally, though.”
“Why did you leave it?”
“Went to the bad,” said the man, nonchalantly.
The man’s remarks had the desired effect; a feeling of closer fellowship began to develop and that, coupled with the warming up process which the second cocktail afforded, caused the woman’s tongue to run glibly.