“To find out.”
At least he could smoke. He opened his cigarette case. Then, though he never felt right about women smoking, he extended it toward her.
“Thanks,” said she, taking one and casually lighting it. Yes, she had fine hands. And he had noted when she took off her coat and reached up to hang it on the wall rack, her youth-like suppleness of body. A provocative person!
“I've seen some of your plays,” she observed, elbows on table, chin on hand, gazing at the smoke-wraiths of her cigarette. “Two or three. Odd Change and Anchored and—what was it called?”
“The Buzzard?”
“Yes, The Buzzard. They were dreadful.”
The color slowly left Peter's face. The girl was speaking without the slightest self-consciousness or wish to offend. She meant it.
Peter managed to recover some part of his poise.
“Well!” he said. Then: “If they were all dreadful, why didn't you stop after the first?”
“Oh.”—she waved her cigarette—“Odd Change came to town when I was in college, and—”