“But how can you be behind with the rent? I only left here the Saturday before last and you weren't in the place then. You can't have been here more than a week.”
“I've been here just a week. That's the week I'm behind with.”
“But why? You were a millionaire when I left you at Roville.”
“Well, the fact of the matter is, I went back to the tables that night and lost a goodish bit of what I'd won. And, somehow or another, when I got to America, the stuff seemed to slip away.”
“What made you come to America at all?” said Sally, asking the question which, she felt, any sensible person would have asked at the opening of the conversation.
One of his familiar blushes raced over Ginger's face. “Oh, I thought I would. Land of opportunity, you know.”
“Have you managed to find any of the opportunities yet?”
“Well, I have got a job of sorts, I'm a waiter at a rummy little place on Second Avenue. The salary isn't big, but I'd have wangled enough out of it to pay last week's rent, only they docked me a goodish bit for breaking plates and what not. The fact is, I'm making rather a hash of it.”
“Oh, Ginger! You oughtn't to be a waiter!”
“That's what the boss seems to think.”