She flashed a smile that promised some and hinted at more, and said, "You bet!"
I watched them as they took the dance floor and the music took them. I turned back to my secretary.
"What gives, angel?" I asked.
She beamed at me. "Winnie," she observed, "you're it. Perhaps the most famous man in Wall Street, in a quiet way. You caught the market just right. Mr. Wasson and Mr. Cone pulled out just right, before the big operators decided they must be patriotic and support quotations before you made too much money. We've cleaned up nearly three million dollars and Mr. Cone's so happy about it he's got him a brand-new girl-friend."
"How about Wasson?" I asked. "Has success gone to his head?"
"Oh, he's just the same as ever. He didn't bat an eyelash except to say that you were one wise so-and-so to figure the break."
"And how about yourself, Arthurjean?"
She grinned at me. "I guess a girl can tell when she's washed up with a swell guy. But you're not Winnie—not the Winnie I knew—and there aren't going to be any fun and games from now on, I guess."
She took a hearty pull at her highball.
"So we're friends," she announced. "You've got a swell wife waiting for you. If you ever need me, I'll be around. If you don't, that's okay too. But Gawd, honeychile, we did have us some fun—Winnie and I. He had a theory that monogamy was a kind of hardwood that grows in the tropics, and that made him kind of nice to play with. What gives with you?"