"No, Joe."
The music flared suddenly; chairs were pushed back from their tables, leaving food and drink in the attitude of waiting. A bolder couple or two ventured out on the shining floor-space, hesitant like a premonitory ripple on the water before the coming of the wind; another and yet another. And almost instanter there was the intricate maze of a crowded floor—women swaying, men threading in, out, around.
"What'll you have to drink, sweetness?"
"Lemonade, please."
"I know a better one than that."
"What?"
"Condensed milk!"
"Silly! I just can't get used to them bitter-tasting things you try out on me."
"You're all right, little Lemonade Girl!"
He leaned across the table and peered under the pink sateen. Its reflection lay like a blush of pleasure across her features, and she kept her gaze averted, with a pretty malaise trembling through her.