"No, I'm still one of the unemployed. Don't I act like it?" He smiled, a patronizing smirk, pleased he'd got the hello girl guessing.
"You act to me like the young millionaire cutting his teeth on Broadway."
He lifted his glass of white wine and sipped it:
"I inherited some money this winter from an uncle up-state. You're not drinking your wine. Don't you like it?"
In his tone, and a shifting of his eyes to the next table, I caught a suggestion of something not easy, put on. Maybe if you hadn't known what I did you wouldn't have noticed what was plain to me—he didn't like the subject.
"No, I never touch wine," I answered. "I don't want to speak unfeelingly but it was mighty convenient your uncle died just as your business failed. Wasn't it too bad about Miss Whitehall?"
"Very unfortunate, poor girl. Bad for me but worse for her."
"She had no idea it was coming, I suppose?"
He looked up sudden and sharp:
"What was coming?"