“Amusing is the word for it until you’re tired of looking at people you never see anywhere else. Ever see the Digue at Ostend?”
“Oh . . . yes!” But Gita scowled. She had particularly unpleasant memories of Ostend. Her father had gambled away his last sou in the Kursaal, and been obliged to sneak out in the night as he could not meet his I.O.U’s. And one of his friends! Gentlemen! Carterets!
“Well, don’t look so tragic about it—I’m going to call you Gita and you must call me Polly—at once. Time was, I’m told, when we Atlantans were cold and formal, but that’s ancient history. Our poor parents try to keep it up, but they’ve given us up. And then you are one of us,” she added, sincerely casual. “Are you engaged?”
“No!”
“That’s right. Plenty of time. We don’t have to marry these days for the sake of freedom, and life’s one long dream when you haven’t a responsibility and can do as you please. Thank heaven I was born twenty years ago, not forty. Moreover, I’m waiting until the men get over prohibition and stop acting like naughty boys. I hate the sight of a hip-pocket. Some of the girls drink because they think it’s funny or think the men think they like it. But I’m afraid I’d go blind or something or come out in a rash. Believe in keeping one’s head, too.”
“Rather! Life’s hard enough without looking round for ways to make it harder.”
“Oh, come now, life’s a jolly nice proposition. I’ve heard you’ve had a lot of trouble and I’m damn sorry. Trouble never was meant for youth. We’ll change all that when—ah—you’re free. No use blinking facts. Old people have to die and not such a bad idea at that. My granny was a real affliction. We had to kiss her twice a day and she wouldn’t wear her false teeth. I was always afraid I’d fall in. What’s your type?”
“Type?”
“Men.”
“Oh!” Gita’s black brows met. “I don’t like any type.”