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She was early. She could saunter back to the theatre, wash her face with Pear's soap, pat on the eating cream, relax, make up, plan what she would wear later to Mr. Ziegfeld's party.
It was their thirtieth performance; he'd taken the New York Roof Garden, and in the dark soft air girls seemed to float and flutter like tall silken flowers: pink, mauve, blue, green, white, the men moving among them narrow and black as bees. All was dark and dulcet, the sky salted with stars, languid music carried on the light wind.
Jay arrived late, in his usual swift, careless fashion. A clamor rose around him. "Jay, oh Jay, Jay, Jay!" the girls gravitated toward him. But he came directly to her, taking her arm in his without a glance, he turned to the others.
"Kay, dear lady, you were ravishing in your Spanish number . . . Justine . . . Olive . . . Ann, you have every man in the audience at your feet at that first-act curtain."
"You've seen the show!"
"Seen it, dear? Every night since you opened."
He turned to chat with Ziegfeld, kissed Billie Burke's hand, praised her gown. He kept Mae's arm cradled in his, his fingers on her wrist.
He'd been there every night! And not a word to her. Now he had glowing praise for everyone but her. She felt a withering wave of shame. What kind of a man was he ? And why did she put up with him? Her heart moved painfully, she could barely breathe. Jay pulled out her chair, and sat down beside her.
"Your mouth is still the same hot menace, dear lady," he whispered. "Are you longing for me as I am for you?"
She shuddered, attracted and repelled, fearful of her mixed emotions toward Jay.
"Will you excuse me ? I left my compact in the ladies' room, Jay."
"Hurry back, dear."
She hurried — into the service elevator, into a cab, and home. All about her in the balmy night people were moving with a
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