She liked the retort.
“I wouldn’t like it if you didn’t—Dorothy.”
He was a little previous, but he’d call her Dorothy anyhow, eventually. She giggled.
He extended his hand. She took it. He held hers.
“And don’t give up your singing.”
She withdrew her hand.
“T won't.”
A cough in the distance.
“Good night—Dorothy. I’ll see you soon?”
“Ring me up. Good night.”
Tommy encountered Arnold Deering on Broad Street two days later.
“So you’ve heard Dorothy sing,” remarked Arnold.
Tommy nodded. He didn’t like the proprietary air.
“Fine little girl,” continued Arnold. “And she’s got a great voice. What do you think of it?”
“Confidentially,” said Tommy, “she’s got a voice like conscience.”
“What’s that?” demanded Arnold.
“A still small voice,” Tommy replied with a grin.
He had been saving up this definition for twenty-four hours.
Arnold shrugged his shoulders.
“Not so much of a gag,” he said. “Ring me up some time. We'll have lunch.”
He crossed the street to greet a young man who wore a hatband the same color as his.
[36]
