"Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you."
"Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled.
"Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one"—shaking her head at Cohn—"didn't come home for lunch."
"I wasn't supposed to."
"Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz—"
"What did you do?"
"Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?"
"Fine."
"That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one."
"Don't you like her?" Cohn asked.
"I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?"
Cohn said nothing.
"Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake."
We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the Paris Times, and I bought one and opened it.
"What's the matter, Frances?"
"Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me."
"How do you mean?"
"Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it."
