At five minutes past eight Max Zincas fitted his key into the door and entered immediately into the front room. On that first click of the lock Mae Munroe stepped out from between the lace curtains, her face carefully powdered and bleached of all its morning inaccuracies, her lips thrust upward and forward.
"Max!"
"Whew!"
He tossed his black derby hat to the red velvet couch and dropped down beside it, his knees far apart and straining his well-pressed trousers to capacity; placed a hand on each well-spread knee, then ran five fingers through his thinning hair; thrust his head well forward, foreshortening his face, and regarded her.
"Well, girl," he said, "here I am."
"I—I—"
"Lied to me, eh? Pretty spry for a sick one, eh? Pretty slick! I knew you was lying, girl."
"I been sick as a dog, Max. Loo can tell you."
"What's got you? Thigh?"
"God! I dun'no'! I dun'no'!"