them, mother . . . People might think it was a little . . . I dont know . . ."
"But Mr. Perkins carries a cane with a gold parrothead."
"Yes but he's one of the vicepresidents, he can do what he likes. . . . But I've got to run." James Merivale hastily kissed his mother and sister. He put on his gloves going down in the elevator. Ducking his head into the sleety wind he walked quickly east along Seventysecond. At the subway entrance he bought a Tribune and hustled down the steps to the jammed soursmelling platform.
Chicago! Chicago! came in bursts out of the shut phonograph. Tony Hunter, slim in a black closecut suit, was dancing with a girl who kept putting her mass of curly ashblond hair on his shoulder. They were alone in the hotel sitting room.
"Sweetness you're a lovely dancer," she cooed snuggling closer.
"Think so Nevada?"
"Um-hum . . . Sweetness have you noticed something about me?"
"What's that Nevada?"
"Havent you noticed something about my eyes?"
"They're the loveliest little eyes in the world."
"Yes but there's something about them."
"You mean that one of them's green and the other one brown."
"Oh it noticed the tweet lil ting." She tilted her mouth up at him. He kissed it. The record came to an end. They both ran over to stop it. "That wasnt much of a kiss, Tony," said Nevada Jones tossing her curls out of her eyes. They put on Shuffle Along.
"Say Tony," she said when they had started dancing again. "What did the psychoanalyst say when you went to see him yesterday?"
"Oh nothing much, we just talked," said Tony with a