you mixed up in this bowl of mush. I'm afraid you'll be spoiled.
Steadying himself, Ambrose lifted the shaker, poured out a third cocktail which he swallowed at a gulp, and demanded, Miss Ford, may I tell you a secret?
I adore secrets, she replied. Aren't you going to give me a cocktail?
In filling her glass, he spilled enough liquor to fill another.
I quite agree with you, he brought out at last.
But I don't understand. . . . A quizzical expression appeared in her eyes.
About this job. I hate it. I didn't want to do it.
Then why did you?
He couldn't answer this question without telling the whole long story again. He compromised by saying, Of course I'm not the great writer you think I am.
Ambrose—I'm going to call you Ambrose after this—I know you are a great writer. Why did you? she persisted.
Ambrose writhed. How could he tell this girl that he had been too weak to say no? Again he compromised: It's only for a little while.
