"Oh, it's the damp," she said, relieved.
"Course it's the damp. I wouldn't expect a rope dancer to live here and stay spry."
That was like Pa; her anxiety evaporated and she began to smile.
"Well, there's one person who does—yours truly. If you don't believe it, come to the Albion and see."
"There ain't another like you, hon. There's not your match from the
Rockies to the Pacific."
"Oh, old blarney!" she cried, now joyous, and, giving him a pat on the shoulder, moved about collecting supper. "Sit tight there while I get you a bite. I've some olives that'll make you think you're back among the greasers."
The supper came from divers places—the window sill, the top bureau drawer, the closet shelf. Beer and sardines were its chief features, with black olives soaked in oil and garlic, cheese straws taken from a corset box, and ripe figs oozing through their paper bag.
They ate hungrily without ceremony, wiping their fingers on the towel she had spread for a cloth. As they munched they swapped their news—his failure at selling the ledge, her success in "The Zingara." He listened to that with avid attention.
"Can you stay and see me tomorrow night?" she asked.
He shook his head.