She put the glass down. "Let's go to my room," she said. "No use bringing my things in here."
"Let's wait a while," he said. Then he looked up at her and noticed that she was removing her dress. "You can put a newspaper over that table lamp," she was saying. She slipped down into the overstuffed chair. "Pour me another drink, too."
"Don't drink any more," he said.
"A little gin and ginger ale won't hurt me. Don't look so funny about me and help me outa this slip." He still sat on the bed. "Come on."
He rose and poured some ginger ale in her glass.
"There's only one kinda paradise on earth, boy," she said. "When I tell you I've been stuck on you since I saw you, that means a lot. When I tell you I ain't been out with a man in all that time—" The slip dropped to the floor and she tossed it on the table.
"Except Ed Feinberg," she added.
"The agent?"
"You don't s'pose he booked the world famous dance team of Rogers and Gracey without me coming across with a date, do you?"
He hesitated.
"Switch off the lights and cover up the lamp with a paper, hon."
"I don't want to," he said.
"You don't want to?" she repeated with blank astonishment. "Aw, don't be nervous. It won't make any difference one way or another, sweet."
"Nita," he said. "I'm awfully fond of you. You're swell." He tucked her slimness in his arms. "But—"
