More accurately, the girl did.
She cleared her throat. A little sound, with faint annoyance clinging
to it.
I had been sitting there, smoking two cigarettes, oblivious to her for
ten minutes. She must have assumed that I had chosen to sit beside her
because she was attractive--which was true. But now, owing to the
absence of sidewise glances, of self-conscious bread-buttering, of any
aura of awareness, she had irritatedly cleared her throat. If I had
spoken to her forthwith she would, perhaps, have made a short, polite,
but discouraging reply. Since, however, I had broken off even the
peripheral touching of consciousness, she coughed vexedly, exploringly.
So I glanced at her book. I had already noticed the jacket. It was
_Ape and Essence_ by Aldous Huxley. She had been reading with a slight
frown. But now I saw that the jacket did not fit the book, which was
thicker than Mr. Huxley's post-atomic predictions. The jacket, then,
was camouflage--for a larger book with maroon binding. What sort of
reading, I wondered, would a glamorous young woman hide behind Aldous
Huxley? And, abruptly, I knew: the Kinsey Report.