I knocked on the bedroom door. After the second try I heard her call out. I put my head round the door. “H’yah, pal,” I said. “Feel like puttin’ on the feed bag?”
She struggled up in bed and blinked at me. Some dames look like the wrath of God in the early morning; Mardi looked swell. Her hair was all curls and her eyes looked large and lazy. She stretched a little. The long sleeves of my pyjamas hid her hands.
“Give me two minutes,” she said, “and I’ll be right with you.”
She jumped out of bed and slipped on the woollen dressing-gown and flopped off to the bathroom. I wheeled the tray in and parked it beside the bed. Then I pulled up one of the blinds and left the other. Strong sunshine after a night out is apt to come tough.
She came back after five minutes and smiled at me. “Did you sleep well?” she asked, climbing into bed.
“Very well,” I said, feeling sappy. I guess no one had asked me that one since I’d been out in the world earning my first dollar. “How did you make out?”
She arranged the pillows and sat up; the dressing-gown spread over the sheet. “Oh, I feel grand right now,” she said. “I thought I’d’ve died last night, I was so tired.”
I brought the tray over to the bed. “I’m glad we were together on that,” I said, looking at her. “I’d’ve hated you to run into those guys on your own.”
She took the cup of coffee, but she didn’t take her eyes off my face. “I’m glad, too.”
“Do you want to talk about last night?” she said.