She gave him a puzzled stare, shook her head, and went into the bedroom, leaving the door wide open.
Ken sat still while he wrestled with his conscience. It would have been easier and so much less complicated if she had run true to type. If she had been a hard little floosie, his coming here wouldn’t have taken on this disconcerting personal atmosphere.
“For goodness’ sake, Buster,” the girl said, coming to the bedroom door, “stop looking like the wrath of God. What’s the matter?”
She came over to where he was sitting took the highball out of his hand and put it on the table. She dropped on her knees in front of him.
“We have plenty of time,” she said. “We can go out later.” She slid her arms around his neck. “Kiss me, Buster.”
Throwing caution to the winds, he caught her to him, his mouth coming down on hers.
III
It was ten-thirty when they left the apartment. They met no one on the stairs, and they picked up a passing taxi outside the house.
“The Blue Rose,” the girl said to the driver. “122nd Street.”
In the dark seclusion of the taxi she sat close to Ken, holding his hand.