"Hello, Gay, here I am again!" she said. She gave him her cold little hand.
He drew off his rain coat and sat down, as fresh and pink as ever, the drops still glistening on his cheeks. "What's up?" he said, touching the electric button and pulling out his cigarette case.
"I'm through with Blanchard Cayley," she said, watching him.
"It's about time," he remarked.
"Aren't you glad to see me, Gay?"
"Sure!" he answered, without looking at her. He scratched a match, and, after he had lighted his cigarette, looked up at the waiter who appeared in the doorway. "Two Picon punches," he said. Then he turned to her and folded his arms.
"What can I do for you, Fancy?"
He seemed, somehow, to have grown ten years older since the time they had frolicked together at the beach. His cheek was as blooming, his figure as boyish, but his eyes were a little harder. His voice showed a little more confidence, and his pose was quite that of the man of the world. Much of his charm had gone.
"Gay," she said, "we were pretty good friends, once."
"That's what we were, Fancy. How much do you need?"