smile. "Never mind the rest—I kin never remember names anyways. Do you dance?"
"I was a assistant at St. Vitus Academy for years," I says, with a bewitchin' grin.
"Oh, a kidder, hey?" she comes back. Then turnin' to the Kid: "Well go ahead and see what your friend wants—if you make it snappy, I'll wait."
The Kid bows again, I don't, and we start for the elevator.
"Do you expect to lick Kennedy by trainin' in a jazzery with a dime for a sparrin' partner?" I snarls, kinda sore. "What's the idea?"
He smiles. But it's a nervous grin—there seems to be somethin' on his mind.
"I was standing in the lobby," he tells me, "and I heard them playing a waltz in there. It was one of those soft, dreamy, Mendellsohny things that brought with it visions of Newport, Tuxedo, Aiken—oh, all that used to be. I went over merely to listen—to close my eyes and fancy myself again a— However, I met Mabel—eh—Miss Murray, quite unconventionally—delightfully so. I simply respectfully asked permission to dance with her, introducing myself, before I thought, as Kane Halliday. You see, I was carried away by the spell of my imaginings and forgot that I am temporarily Kid Roberts, a pugilist. Unfortunately the lady had no sooner granted my idiotic request when the orchestra swung into that infernal din—jazz, I believe they call it—and I, of course, had to go through with it."
"It didn't seem to be causin' you no pain when I
