"Oh," said Eddie, "I see. You feel like smearing a little bunk about the gorgeous home you got."
Dot didn't think of any one who might be glad to hear from her. After an hour of deep thought, she replaced the pen and ink and slid her stationery back in its hallowed place between her lavender combination and her pink one. She returned to the living-room to listen to Don Roberts singing "Marcheta" for the four-thousandth time from Station WHN.
"I gotta get my hair cut," she remarked, "as soon as I think I can sit long enough in a barber's chair without getting sick."
"Why don't you wait till the day before Christmas Eve?" said Eddie. "Then you'll look good for Sue's party."
"I don't think I can go to Sue's party," said Dot. "Suppose I got sick?"
"Well, suppose you did?" asked Eddie. "I'd take you home. Say, you can't close yourself up in the house for nine months."
"Listen, Eddie, you go. I'll be all right here with a movie magazine—"
"Trying to make me out selfish, ain't you? I said that you couldn't close yourself up. You're always misunderstanding things."
"Well, it's no wonder—"
"You said it. No wonder you don't understand when you don't try to. I meant you ought to go for the kick you'd get out of it. I don't give a damn for Sue or for her party."
"Don't go then."
"I'll be damned if I will."
"All right. We'll both stay home unless you have some other place in mind you'd like to go."
"Yes, I'll go to the Ritz-Carlton for the evening."
