“What kind of job do you mean?”
“I want to learn something about you first. Will you come over to my table and talk it over?”
“No.”
“What sort do you suppose me to be?” he inquired, amused.
“The usual sort, I suppose.”
“You mean a Johnny?”
“Yes—of sorts.”
She let her insolent eyes sweep him once more, from head to foot.
He was a well-built young man and in his evening dress he had that something about him which placed him very definitely where he really belonged.
“Would you mind looking at my card?” he asked.