She nearly smiled. “No, with another girl.”
“Do I know her?”
She pursed her lips. “I doubt it.” A moment more of hesitation, then: “Her name is Deane, Betty Deane.”
“I've heard that name. Yes, I've seen her—at the Black and White ball this winter! A blonde—pretty—went as a Picabia dancer.”
They were mounting the steps to the sidewalk (for Jim's is a basement).
“Good-by,” said she. “Will you come—to-night or to-morrow?”
“Yes,” said he. “To-night.” And walked in a daze back to the rooms on Washington Square.