“We’ll be—” They were gone.
“Yeah, they forgot something!” Pat chuckled. “What’ll I do? Go and get them?”
“Oh no, please don’t!” Jeanne grasped his arm.
“You see,” she explained, “they thought I was some one else.”
“This LeMar person? Well, ain’t you?”
“No, I’m not, really.” She gave him a knowing look. “I’m just Petite Jeanne, the little French girl who lived with Bihari the gypsy. You know that, Pat. You’ve known it quite a long while.
“All the same,” she added hastily, “if you see Lorena LeMar, who looks just like me, having any trouble, you just march right up and say: ‘What’s all this about?’ Will you?” She gave his arm a squeeze and was gone.
Dashing to a corner she boarded a bus and was whirled away. No more window-shopping for her that night. Only her own top floor rooms with the door safely locked could still her heart’s wild beating.
“Not Lorena LeMar yet,” she thought, as fresh consternation seized her. “Yet I am threatened with the doubtful kindness of her friends.
“Oh, I know,” she breathed. “They were only three gay play-boys out for a good time.