"Yeh. It's kind of hard, though, where the runs are. I don't get the runs so very good." He played it. She kept time with head and feet. When he had finished and wiped his lips:
"Elegant!" She took the harmonica from him, wiped it brazenly on the much-abused, rose-coloured handkerchief and began to play, her cheeks puffed out, her eyes round with effort. She played the Tommy Toddle, and her runs were perfect. Nick's chagrin was swallowed by his admiration and envy.
"Say, kid, you got more wind than a factory whistle. Who learned you to play?"
She struck her chest with a hard brown fist. "Tennis ... Tim taught me."
"Who's Tim?"
"The—a chauffeur."
Nick leaned closer. "Say, do you ever go to the dances at Englewood Masonic Hall?"
"I never have."
"'Jah like to go some time?"
"I'd love it." She grinned up at him, her teeth flashing white in her brown face.