One day the Spaniard, this tall thin roaster with the black mustache, was waiting as I came out of the locker room.
“Listen! Listen!” he panted, from force of habit. “Next week is still so very long off.”
It so happened it was my last day at the hotel. I told him I was leaving that night.
“Oh, miss!” He looked really upset. “Then you will go out to-night with me. Surely to-night.”
No, I had a date.
To-morrow night.
No, I had another date.
Sunday—oh, Sunday, just one Sunday.
Sunday I had two dates.
I should be able to flatter my female soul that at least he forgot the seasoning that night in his roasts.