“My family’s poor and I’ve had to work to earn my own living,” she said, simply. “I live in the toughest part of Ninth Avenue—I was born and raised there. The people I come from think that art’s the second word in ‘Thou art bughouse.’ Now you’ve got the whole sad story.”
“Well, seeing that confessions are in order, I’ll spill mine,” he answered. “I was brought up in a neighborhood where they throw paving-blocks at each other to prove the sincerity of their feelings. One of them hit me once, but it didn’t seem able to knock any obedience into me. Oh, ye-es, nice, little neighborhood.”
“’F it’s any worse than Hell’s Kitchen it must be a peach,” she replied, thoroughly unreserved and immersed in him now.
“It is—Peoria Street in Chicago,” he said, smiling. “If I could escape from Peoria Street, you’ll probably be able to get out of Ninth Avenue with one wing-flutter and a little audacity! I’m working for a Harlem cabaret now—Tony’s Club. Publicity man ... writing the blurbs, and arranging the banquets, and getting the celebs to come down.”
“I’m quite sure you’re different from most publicity men, I can just feel it in your words and in the looks on your face,” she answered, in a mocking voice.
“Lady, I’ll never feed you that medicine again—the taste is simply frightful,” he replied.
They both laughed and felt relieved about it.
“D’you know, I’ve got a writing bug buzzing in my head,” she said, after a short pause. “It really started only a night ago—I never dared to believe I could do it before. I was down to Greenwich Village for the first time, and when I came back I wrote a sketch of the tearoom I’d been in. I didn’t think it amounted to very much, but Max Oppendorf, the poet, you know, he tells me it’s really clever and original, in spite of the shaky grammar. I’m going to keep on writing, you see, and he’s promised to criticize my stuff and try to put it over for me.”
“I think I met Oppendorf once,” he replied. “He’s tall and blond, isn’t he?”
“Yes, that’s him—he’s here to-night.”