“Sure!” said Billee, giving her hand. And Billee danced. It was the most wonderful thing, of the kind, King had ever seen. The band was playing “Don’t Blame Me for What Happens in the Moonlight,” and the two figures, threading a marvelous path through the crowd, swayed, dipped, hesitated, glided and whirled in perfect rhythm. Billee’s face glowed with excitement, her gentian eyes half closed harbored all the fun in the world. Passing King, she called:
“Going some, friend!” Breathless, at length, she joined him.
“T’anks, lady,” said the boy, “you are sure some stepper.”
“Same here,” said Billee, politely. Billee was learning slang easily. The boy took one long look at her, his soul in his eyes.
“Gee!” he said, and turned away.
“Come, let’s get out of this,” urged King. He saw other young men moving towards them. “If that boy who put his arm around you wasn’t Bowery he passes there every day.”
“What of it? He’s all American. I like his independence.”
“So do I,” said King. “On reflection, I believe I was a little jealous.”
“He is the most direct young man I ever met. I told him I was married and he promptly called me a liar.”
Billee found a tired woman sitting in the sand, a tousled baby in her lap. She dropped down by her.