"Look, Greta—"
Wham! Her hand, small and delicate, felt like a slab of lead when it slammed into his cheek. She left a bruise five fingers wide, and then turned and stalked out.
He ran after her, the restaurant proprietor shouting about the unpaid bill. It took a rapid dog-trot to reach her side.
"Greta, listen!" he panted. "You don't understand about last night. It wasn't the way that lousy columnist said—"
She stopped in her tracks.
"I wouldn't have minded so much if you'd gotten me drunk. But to use me, just to get a story—"
"But I'm a reporter, damn it. It's my job. I'd do it again if I thought you knew anything."
She was pouting now. "Well, how do you suppose I feel, knowing you're only interested in me because of the Senator? Anyway, I'll probably lose my job, and then you won't have any use for me."
"Good-bye, Greta," Jerry said sadly.