"You should be."
She undid the catch of her jacket and took it off. The green blouse beneath was little more than a broad brassière—a sensible and summery thing that left bare a midsection of smooth, sunburned abdomen and rib. "It was my idea to call you up," she said.
"Which pleases me with you."
She sat down near the window, hopeful a breeze might come through it. Her eyes rested on mine with gay attentiveness. "It's terribly slow at Hat's," she said. "It has been—all month."
"Everybody," I said, "is out of town."
"Leaving nobody home to go out of the world with. Desolating!"
"I've got some Scotch—soda—"
"Weak," she said, "and lots of ice."
I mixed the drink. While I was doing it, she saw the manuscript in work and went over to the bridge table. She read a few lines. "It sounds amusing," she said.
"It did to me—the first time through. And the second time—when I corrected it. Right now, I'm cutting it, and my own jokes are a little less than fresh." I handed her the tall glass. "Too bad we don't have airconditioning here at the Astolat."