“Yes, and the air is usually stale even in the late spring. When it’s warm, it’s sticky. And when it’s cold, it’s raw.”
“You are a New Yorker?”
“Yes,” said Miss Trevor faintly, and for an instant showing surprise at his ignorance. “That is, I spend part of the winter here—like all New Yorkers.”
“All?”
“Oh, all except those who don’t count, or rather, who merely count.”
“How do you mean?” Howard was taking advantage of her looking into her plate to smile with a suggestion of irony. She happened to glance up and so caught him.
“Oh,” she said, smiling with frank irony at him, “I mean all those people—the masses, I think they’re called—the people who have to be fussed over and reformed and who keep shops and—and all that.”
“The people who work, you mean?”
“No, I mean the people you never meet about anywhere, the people who read the newspapers and come to the basement door.”
“Oh, yes, I understand.” Howard was laughing. “Well, that’s one way of looking at life. Of course it’s not my way.”