“What are you going to do?”
“What others do, I presume.”
“What do others do?” he inquired, watching the lovely sullen eyes.
“Oh, they do what I’m doing now, don’t they?—let some man pick them up and feed them.” She lifted her indifferent eyes. “I’m not criticising you. I meant to do it some day—when I had courage. That’s why I just asked you if I might have some champagne—finding myself a little scared at my first step.... But you did say you might have a job for me. Didn’t you?”
“Suppose I haven’t. What are you going to do?”
The curtain was rising. She nodded toward the bespangled chorus. “Probably that sort of thing. They’ve asked me.”
Supper was served. They both were hungry and thirsty; the music made conversation difficult, so they supped in silence and watched the imbecile show conceived by vulgarians, produced by vulgarians and served up to mental degenerates of the same species—the average metropolitan audience.
For ten minutes a pair of comedians fell up and down a flight of steps, and the audience shrieked approval.
“Miss Norne?”
The girl who had been watching the show turned in her chair and looked back at him.