“No-ope. Barlow.”
“Well, I knew there were two syllables anyway. You’re the boy that played the ukulele so well up at Howard Marshall’s house party.
“I played—but not—”
A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary—much easier to talk to.
“My name’s Dean, Philip Dean,” he said cheerfully. “You don’t remember me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett.”
Edith looked up quickly.
“Yes, I went up with him twice—to the Pump and Slipper and the Junior prom.”
“You’ve seen him, of course,” said Dean carelessly. “He’s here to-night. I saw him just a minute ago.”
Edith started. Yet she had felt quite sure he would be here.
“Why, no, I haven’t—”