Page:The Sick-A-Bed Lady.djvu/282

 white shoulder just a fraction of an inch too far out of its jeweled strap. The Host, conversing every second with exaggerated blandness about the squirrels in Central Park, was striving frantically all the while with a desperately surreptitious, itchy gesture to signal to his mate. Worse than this, a, prominent Sociologist was audibly discussing the American penal system with a worried-looking lady whose brother was even then under indictment for some banking fraud. Some one, trying to kick the Sociologist's ankle bone, had snagged his own foot gashingly through the Woodland Girl's skirt ruffle, and the Woodland Girl, blush-blown yet with coun- try breezes, clear-eyed as a trout pool, sweet- breathed as balsam, was staring panic-stricken around the table, trying to locate the particular man's face that could possibly connect boot-wise with such a horridly profane accident. The sud- den, grotesque alertness of her expression attracted the laggard interest of the young Journalist at her left.

"What brought you to New York? "the Jour- nalist asked abruptly. "You re the last victim in from the country, so you must give an account of yourself. Come fess up! What brought you to New York?"

The Journalist s smile was at least as conscien- tious as the smile of daylight down a city airshaft,