“Why, there isn’t a thing wrong with me—truly.” She turned to watch the dancers as they swayed past, two moving as one to the lure of darky music. In the [179] ]center of the flagged floor a fountain sent up showering spray colored emerald, ruby and gold by lights from within. The place was filled with a soft languor. It seemed set very close beneath the Indian Summer sky.
When she turned back she found Brooks gazing at her.
“Come to think of it,” observed Cleeburg, glance traveling from one to the other, “you don’t look any too chipper yourself, old man. Didn’t notice it when you got in this morning but you’re both played out.”
“Gloria had a little smash-up after the performance last night. Been working at top speed. Nothing wrong with me. We’re both tired, that’s all. There wasn’t a breath of air in the train, either.” Brooks lifted his glass of cider and a dry smile played round his lips. “I drink to thee only with mine eyes,” he said to Gloria.
Cleeburg grinned. “Say, why not come out to the house with us now? Give you something stronger. Stop off, shoot a few things into a bag and a night in the country’ll do you good.”
Brooks put down his glass. “Thanks, no. Think I’d better stick to my own bunk.”
“How about next week then? Run you out after the show Saturday night. You can try a couple of holes of golf with Gloria Sunday.”
“Sorry, old man, I’m booked.”
“Well, any time you like. Ain’t a place, ours, where you have to wait for a bid.”
“I know that.”