“How are you, Charley?”
“Here, gimme your little hand. Shake.”
She placed her palm in his, quivering.
You of the classes, peering through lorgnettes into the strange world of the masses, spare that shrug. True, when Charley Chubb’s hand closed over Sara Juke’s she experienced a flash of goose flesh; but, you of the classes, what of the Van Ness ball last night? Your gown was low, so that your neck rose out from it like white ivory. The conservatory, where trained clematis vines met over your heads, was like a bower of stars; music; his hand, the white glove off, over yours; the suffocating sweetness of clematis blossoms; a fountain throwing fine spray; your neck white as ivory, and—what of the Van Ness ball last night?
Only Sara Juke played her poor little game frankly and the cards of her heart lay on the counter.
“Charley!” Her voice lay in a veil.
“Was you getting sore, Sweetness?”
“All day you didn’t come over.”
“Couldn’t, Sweetness. Did you hear me let up on the new hit for a minute?”
“It’s swell, though, Charley; all the girls was humming it. You play it like lightning too.”