Well, I could have phoned. Why didn't I?
"Miss Taylor's here." The jungle-bright eyes sloped darkly toward me
and away.
"Is she? I thought--"
"I'll call her." She led me to the same room--Hattie's parlor.
I sat down. I could stick around a while. Paul might not come here, in
his humiliating chase. He probably would. He'd had--no doubt--other
leads to check first.
Gwen appeared. She was wearing her hair down, tonight, and a silk dress
the color of a new penny. A matching dress. "'Lo, Phil." She walked
gracefully to the phonograph, clicked records, turned dials, and filled
the room with soft bongoses, maracas, the background thud of a conga
drum.
"I thought you were going downtown?"
"Soon. Did you mind--about last night?"
"Tonight--I never mind about last night. Rule of my life. Look, Gwen.
How did you know--so quickly--exactly what that gal was like?"
"I told you," she said. "I get feelings."
"I don't. Just surprises."
"You try to think," she said. "Figure. Then you go by the results of
that. It's no good. You just--relax--and see what your sensations are."
"We were never allowed to relax about it. From the cradle to the
crematory--we have to be either tensely on guard or else proficiently
on the job."
"It's a wonder people like you ever have babies."
"We don't have many."