She threw herself on the divan, blew down the front of her rose-pink
dress--which was wrinkled now, wet under the armpits, city-smudged
at the edges--and fixed her fidgety eyes on me. "We went down to the
Palais and danced a bit. He's lousy. We started in having a flock of
drinks. He talked. Good God, how Wylies talk! He told me the story of
his life--including the full saga of Marcia. He got to that later--at
the Club Mauve."
"Nice little spot!"
"He said we were both in a revolting mood and so we should go to some
repulsive place."
"Then you told him the story of your life, too?"
"Up to when I met you."
"Is that going to be a date, from now on? Milestone? And millstone,
too? Try to bear in mind--it's your life and you're of age."
"So all right, lambie-pie! No hard feelings. The point is--the more
he told me about his Marcia--the less he noticed me. We switched to
Planter's Punches, in due time, and had a zombie somewhere along the
way. For a while I thought the rum was going to do what my gilded
fleece couldn't. We necked. It's dark as a bat's groin there, anyhow."
"Pretty metaphor."
"We necked, I said. Back in the old days--last week--I could neck
with a boy from the time he cut me out at the prom until bacon and
eggs at Child's--and never feel a thing I didn't want to feel.
Tonight--though--I lost ground so fast you'd think I was a juvenile
delinquent trying her first reefer."
"Poor premise--but I get the idea."
"And what?"
She turned and smiled with excess brightness at George, when he carried
in the round, silver tray.
"And what--?" She revived the question. "Just as your cute little
Paulie-pie was getting interesting--and I thought, interested--he
talked himself right into going on the hunt for his Marcia again!"
"That's too bad."
"It's too bad--and what are you going to do about it?"
"Remember what I said concerning how I don't like girls when they drink
too much? Even a little bit too much?"
Yvonne gulped explosively. "All right, then! So I call up Gwen! And
that's your fault!"
"Telephone's right beside you."
She looked at it sulkily. Then she grabbed it and gave the number.
"Hello ... this is Mrs. Roland Prentiss ... is Gwen Taylor there?" She
stuck out her tongue at me. "Gwen, darling!... dad's gone, at last ...
sure ... that would be lovely ... of course!"
"Ace-in-the-hole," I said.
"Don't be--" She shrugged and laughed restlessly. "Oh--all right. It's
my life, though, isn't it?"
"That's the idea."
"Phil!"
"Present--and unaccountable." I didn't feel witty.
"You come with me--" She was standing and she finished the highball
standing.