I met in New York. Shall I ask some one to introduce you to me?
No, don't. She spoke quickly. She was less nervous now. My name is Mary Love.
Somehow, Miss Love . . . it was his turn to be embarrassed . . . you stand out in a crowd like this. I couldn't help liking you even before I talked to you.
I saw you first . . . diving.
He smiled. That's the only thing I do well.
You do that well. Is it your profession?
I haven't any profession yet. I want to write, he went on.
You're a writer! Mary exclaimed with enthusiasm.
Oh, I haven't published much. I've had a piece or two in Opportunity, but that won't keep me alive. At college they said I had promise. I know what they meant, he added, pretty good for a coloured man. That doesn't satisfy me. I want to be as good as any one. It's frightfully noisy here, he went on. Couldn't we find a quieter spot?
It's noisy all over the place. Downstairs, there's a jazz-band. Anyhow, if we go anywhere else we're sure to be followed. I came up here to get away from the confusion and you can see how successful I've been. Why don't you call on me in New York?
