“The what?” she asked, staring at him blankly. “Do you mean the Dorchester Hotel?”
He felt himself flushing. “Yes,” he said. “Why not?”
“What, in those clothes?” she asked, eyeing him up and down. “My dear man! They wouldn’t let you past the door.”
He looked at his worn shoes, his face burning. If she had struck him with a whip she couldn’t have succeeded in hurting him more.
“And what about me?” she went on, apparently unaware that she had so completely crushed him. “The Dorchester in these rags?”
“I—I’m sorry,” George said, not looking at her. “I just wanted to give you a good time. I—I didn’t think it mattered what you wore.”
“Well, it does,” she said coldly.
There was a long, awkward pause. George was too flustered to suggest anywhere else. She’ll go in a moment, he thought feverishly. I’m sure she’ll go. Why am I standing like this, doing nothing? I can’t expect her to suggest anything—it’s my place to make the arrangements.
But the more he tried to think where he could take her, the more panic-stricken he became.
She was eyeing him curiously now. He could feel her eyes on his face.