Peter was annoyed. "John Whittier's not my real name," he said. "My name's Peter Neale."
That aroused no flash of recognition. Peter was surprised that this girl of the Eldorado should know John Greenleaf Whittier and never have heard of Peter Neale.
"I don't think it's very nice of you," she said, "not to give me your real name. I gave you mine. Are you ashamed of me?"
"No," replied Peter, "I'm ashamed of myself."
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to get drunk."
"We'll get drunk together. I'll help you."
Drinking with somebody did seem to help. At any rate after two rounds Peter achieved for the first time during the evening that detached feeling which he had been seeking. All the dancers now were dim and distant. The music was something which tinkled from down a long corridor. Even the obligation to drink seemed lighter. Peter merely sat and stared at Elaine. Gray-eyed, firm and flaming, it was a face which blotted out all other images. He found himself thinking only of this woman in front of him. And she was real. She was close. He could touch her.
"Who are you looking at?" said the girl.
"Elaine."