"A wife."
She considered that at length, too. "Gwen said last night she knew from the minute she saw you that you wanted company, but not particularly a pretty girl. Just a person. She said she told you all those things about herself, hoping—"
"They had their little effect," I reminded Yvonne.
"Your Ricky," she answered, "must be some gal."
"She's my gal—which makes her some gal to me."
The door knocked again—the front door, this time.
It was a box of flowers—yellow roses, again.
For a minute I thought the manager had slipped up.
There wasn't any card.
Then I knew.