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with plenty of flash. Caruso lived there, and many other celebrities; the menus offered shirred eggs and liver as "Cohan and Harris Special Eggs." The grill was excellent and in the bar, Maxfield Parrish's painting, "Old King Cole/' grinned down on the gayest aggregations in town.
Newspapers kept harping on the war in Europe, Variety sang the blues about show business, but you couldn't believe it. Not here in this place vibrant with people, the golden cocktails, the rhythm of moving feet, the smile of Old King Cole. Jay O'Brien stood with a group of men near the bar. He saw her at once, waved, and continued his conversation.
"Yes, thank you." She smiled at the hovering waiter and selected a petit four from the pastry tray. "May I have two?"
She and Olive giggled like children over the sweets. Her mouth was filled with pastry, when she first noticed him, a dark almond-eyed young man with a pliant grace all his own. She asked Olive who he was.
"He dances at Maxim's, I think," Olive said. "Damned beautiful, isn't he?"
He was like a sensuous animal stalking the jazz jungle. She studied him carefully; everything about him was a trifle different, his coat long, tightly fitted, lean over the hips. It suited him; so did the long twisted loop of chain that swung against his leg and the patent-leather hair. As if he sensed her eyes on him he looked up at that instant, then deferentially inclined his head. She liked his graceful manners, the evident breeding, the little bow. He was Latin, of course. And those knowing eyes! She'd confessed once as a child to a young priest with just such dark soft suede eyes.
"Girl, how I've dreamed of you." Jay's voice startled her. With all the people milling about, in the haze of cigarette smoke, he stood gazing down at her, saying embarrassingly intimate things. Olive moved tactfully away. Mae gave him a look of blank innocence. Half the time she wasn't sure what Jay was talking about.
"I called you three times today. You must have left at dawn.