like to really get going on the boat. But I’ve got to go back to town tonight, so what about you and Bar and Frannie and Miss Rand all getting paint brushes and going to work tomorrow?”
“Pardon me while I die from laughing,” said Ruth.
“I will if the others do,” said Barbara.
“You’re safe and you know it,” said Ruth.
“Girls?” said Emily.
• • •
“Let’s save the Plaza?” said Isabel Stannard.
“Nope. I’m for blowing it up,” said Jimmy.
“What?”
“Let it go, dear. It wasn’t worth it.”
“What wasn’t worth what?” she said.
“Please, will you go back to whatever it was you said first? Let’s save the Plaza. All right, let’s save it. Save it for what? Do you want to go some place else?”
“I think we ought to go there some time when we’re feeling more like it.”
“Well, I don’t exactly see what you mean. I feel like it. I felt like it before I saw you, I felt like it up at your apartment, and you did too—”
“No, not exactly. Remember I was dressed for the country. I thought we were going for a drive.”
“Mm. Well, where to, then?” he said.
“Let’s keep walking down Fifth—”
“Till we get to Childs Forty-eighth Street.”
“All right,” she said. “That’s all right with me.”
“I thought it would be.”
“We could go to Twenty-One.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Aren’t they open Sunday? I’m sure I’ve been there Sunday some time.”
“Oh, I know you have, some time. But not at this hour. It’s too early, dear. It’s too early. They don’t open till around five-thirty.”
“Are you sure that isn’t something new?”
“When the same people were at 42 West Forty-ninth they had the same rule about Sunday. Now that they’re at 21 West Fifty-second Street, damned if they haven’t the same rule they had at 42 West Forty-ninth. The same people, the same rule, different places.”
“Another one of those hats,” she said.
“Another one of what hats?”
“Didn’t you see it? I think they’re rather cute, but I don’t know whether to buy one or not. Those hats. Didn’t you notice that girl that went by with the foreign-looking man? She was smoking a cigarette.”
“She gets paid for that.”
“Paid for it?”
“Yes, paid for it. I read that in Winchell’s column—”
“The way you wander about from subject to subject, you’re like a mountain goat jumping from crag to crag—”
“From precipice to precipice, and back—”
“I know that one, don’t say it. Why does she get paid?”
“Why does who get paid, my lamb, my pet?”
“The woman. The one with the hat. The one I just commented on. You said Walter Winchell said she gets money.”
“Oh, yes. She gets paid for smoking a cigarette on Fifth Avenue. Winchell ran that in his column after the Easter parade. They’re trying to popularize street smoking for women—”
“It’ll never go.”
“It’ll never take the place of the old Welsbach burner, if—hello. Hello.” He spoke to two people, girl and man.
“Who are they? See, she has one of those Eugenie hats. She’s rather attractive. Who is she?”
“She’s a model at Bergdorf Goodman’s.”
“She’s French?”
“She’s about as French as you are—”
“That’s more French than you think.”
“Well, than I am. She’s—are you still interested?—a Jewess, and he’s a lawyer, a Broadway divorce lawyer. He’s the kind you see in the tabloids every Monday morning. He tips off the city editors of the
News
and
Mirror
and gets a free ad on page three. The story’s always about his client, of course, but he gets his name printed in the third paragraph, with his address. Winthrop S. Saltonstall, of Fourteen-Something Broadway.”
“Huh. Winthrop Saltonstall’s hardly a Jewish name.”
“That’s what
you
think.”
“Then I suppose she’s getting a divorce—although of course she may just know him anyway.”
“That’s right. You’re catching
“Pardon me while I die from laughing,” said Ruth.
“I will if the others do,” said Barbara.
“You’re safe and you know it,” said Ruth.
“Girls?” said Emily.
• • •
“Let’s save the Plaza?” said Isabel Stannard.
“Nope. I’m for blowing it up,” said Jimmy.
“What?”
“Let it go, dear. It wasn’t worth it.”
“What wasn’t worth what?” she said.
“Please, will you go back to whatever it was you said first? Let’s save the Plaza. All right, let’s save it. Save it for what? Do you want to go some place else?”
“I think we ought to go there some time when we’re feeling more like it.”
“Well, I don’t exactly see what you mean. I feel like it. I felt like it before I saw you, I felt like it up at your apartment, and you did too—”
“No, not exactly. Remember I was dressed for the country. I thought we were going for a drive.”
“Mm. Well, where to, then?” he said.
“Let’s keep walking down Fifth—”
“Till we get to Childs Forty-eighth Street.”
“All right,” she said. “That’s all right with me.”
“I thought it would be.”
“We could go to Twenty-One.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Aren’t they open Sunday? I’m sure I’ve been there Sunday some time.”
“Oh, I know you have, some time. But not at this hour. It’s too early, dear. It’s too early. They don’t open till around five-thirty.”
“Are you sure that isn’t something new?”
“When the same people were at 42 West Forty-ninth they had the same rule about Sunday. Now that they’re at 21 West Fifty-second Street, damned if they haven’t the same rule they had at 42 West Forty-ninth. The same people, the same rule, different places.”
“Another one of those hats,” she said.
“Another one of what hats?”
“Didn’t you see it? I think they’re rather cute, but I don’t know whether to buy one or not. Those hats. Didn’t you notice that girl that went by with the foreign-looking man? She was smoking a cigarette.”
“She gets paid for that.”
“Paid for it?”
“Yes, paid for it. I read that in Winchell’s column—”
“The way you wander about from subject to subject, you’re like a mountain goat jumping from crag to crag—”
“From precipice to precipice, and back—”
“I know that one, don’t say it. Why does she get paid?”
“Why does who get paid, my lamb, my pet?”
“The woman. The one with the hat. The one I just commented on. You said Walter Winchell said she gets money.”
“Oh, yes. She gets paid for smoking a cigarette on Fifth Avenue. Winchell ran that in his column after the Easter parade. They’re trying to popularize street smoking for women—”
“It’ll never go.”
“It’ll never take the place of the old Welsbach burner, if—hello. Hello.” He spoke to two people, girl and man.
“Who are they? See, she has one of those Eugenie hats. She’s rather attractive. Who is she?”
“She’s a model at Bergdorf Goodman’s.”
“She’s French?”
“She’s about as French as you are—”
“That’s more French than you think.”
“Well, than I am. She’s—are you still interested?—a Jewess, and he’s a lawyer, a Broadway divorce lawyer. He’s the kind you see in the tabloids every Monday morning. He tips off the city editors of the
News
and
Mirror
and gets a free ad on page three. The story’s always about his client, of course, but he gets his name printed in the third paragraph, with his address. Winthrop S. Saltonstall, of Fourteen-Something Broadway.”
“Huh. Winthrop Saltonstall’s hardly a Jewish name.”
“That’s what
you
think.”
“Then I suppose she’s getting a divorce—although of course she may just know him anyway.”
“That’s right. You’re catching
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