“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I see a freckle comin’ out to look the landscape over. Sorry you ain’t got that powder-puff with you.”
“I have it, all right.”
“I didn’t know you had pockets in that dress.”
“It’s my corsage.”
“Your which?”
“Look at that funny trombone-player.” He turned to stare at the shiny bald head, and when he looked back she had just slipped something into the bosom of her dress. All traces of the freckle were gone. She flushed a little under his eye of inquiry. Then very anxiously: “Is it gone?”
“It’s behind a cloud, anyway,” said Carrigan. “Here’s Maurie Gordon.”
The big cow-puncher came up, earnest-eyed.
“If you’re not hooked up for this next waltz—” he began.