When Carley went into the reception room of the Plaza that night Morrison was waiting for her—the same slim, fastidious, elegant, sallow-faced Morrison whose image she had in mind, yet somehow different. He had what Carley called the New York masculine face, blasé and lined, with eyes that gleamed, yet had no fire. But at sight of her his face lighted up.
“By Jove! but you’ve come back a peach!” he exclaimed, clasping her extended hand. “Eleanor told me you looked great. It’s worth missing you to see you like this.”
“Thanks, Larry,” she replied. “I must look pretty well to win that compliment from you. And how are you feeling? You don’t seem robust for a golfer and horseman. But then I’m used to husky Westerners.”
“Oh, I’m fagged with the daily grind,” he said. “I’ll be glad to get up in the mountains next month. Let’s go down to dinner.”
They descended the spiral stairway to the grillroom, where an orchestra was playing jazz, and dancers gyrated on a polished floor, and diners in evening dress looked on over their cigarettes.
“Well, Carley, are you still finicky about the eats?” he queried, consulting the menu.
“No. But I prefer plain food,” she replied.
“Have a cigarette,” he said, holding out his silver monogrammed case.
“Thanks, Larry. I—I guess I’ll not take up smoking again. You see, while I was West I got out of the habit.”
“Yes, they told me you had changed,” he returned. “How about drinking?”