"Well," the old man smiled, "if you say so, I'm satisfied. There is something in a Gracey."
"My name isn't Gracey, here, dad."
"What is it?"
"Buddy Renault."
"Nice name, but when you go back to the States, you'll be Gracey again, won't you?"
"Perhaps."
"I was worried about you. You should have written. I wrote to Mr. Lowell. He didn't reply. I—"
The black-moustached face of Frank appeared between father and son.
"She's on her way downstairs, Bud. You better get ready for your number."
The dance—sensuous, slow, replete with daring suggestions; a love dance, a dance of barren love. Sometimes Anita and Ken danced as frequently as twenty times a night, the number of their performances depending upon the size of their audiences and the corresponding possibilities of making more money.
Anita's eyes were forever feverishly bright. She drank constantly, never paying for her drinks, which were charged to the checks of her escorts. She seldom became intoxicated. The dance seemed to keep her sober. She usually wore a deep-cut scarlet gown. Her cheeks were nearly as scarlet as the gown. Her hair, dyed black, was dressed high on her head. Her feet were shod in red slippers. She spoke in a thin, nervous voice, frequently interrupting herself with an almost birdlike change of thought.
The other females in Frank and Jack's were loose-limbed, sagging-cheeked. Several were Mexican. One was Chinese.
