“Not all day, Baldy. Part of it.”
“I’m not sure that I like it.”
“Why not?”
“A man like that. He might fill your head with ideas.”
“I hope my head is filled with ideas, Baldy.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You mean that I might think he would fall in love with me. Well, I don’t. But he likes to play and so do I. I hope he’ll do it some more. And you and Evans are a pair of croakers. Here, I’ve been having the time of my life, and you’re both trying to take the joy out of it.”
They began to protest. She flung off their apologies. “Oh, let’s eat dinner. Between the two of you you’ve spoiled my day.”
But she was too light-hearted to hold resentment, and by the time the coffee came she was herself again. After dinner, Baldy telephoned Edith, and came back to set the victrola going to a most riotous tune and danced with Jane. It was an outlet for his emotions. Edith ... Edith ... Edith ... was the tune to which he danced.
Then he made Jane play his accompaniment and sang the passionate lines of a poet much derided by the moderns: