“I beg pardon?”
“Esplanade. Where I live in New Orleans,” she explained. “Its a street,” she added after a while.
“Oh,” Major Ayers murmured. . . . “Do you like living there?”
“I don’t know. I always lived there.” After a time she added: “It’s not far.”
“Not far, eh?”
“No, sir.” She stood motionless beside him and for the third time Major Ayers jerked his head quickly, as though some one were trying to attract his attention.
“I was on my way below,” he repeated. Jenny waited a while. Then she murmured:
“It’s a fine night for courting.”
“Courting?” Major Ayers repeated.
“With dates.” Major Ayers stared down upon her hushed, soft hair. “When boys come to see you,” she explained.
“When you go out with the boys.”
“Go out with boys,” Major Ayers repeated. “To Mandeville, perhaps?”
“Sometimes,” she agreed. “I’ve been there.”
“Do you go often?”
“Why. . . sometimes,” she repeated.
“With boys, eh? With men, too, hey?”
“Yes, sir,” Jenny answered with mild surprise. “I don’t guess anybody would just go there by herself.”
Major Ayers calculated heavily. Jenny stood docile and rife, projecting her little enticing aura, doing her best. “I say,” he said presently, “suppose we pop down there tomorrow—you and I?”
“To-morrow?” Jenny repeated with soft astonishment.
“To-night, then,” he amended. “What d’ye say?”
