Eddie touched his hat and said, "I'm pleased to meet you."
Edna did not move from her position at the rail. She smiled at Eddie, exhibiting teeth that had gone to the dentist too late. The mutual friend suffered great embarrassment at Edna's silence but overcame it by assuring herself that she had done the proper thing. So reasoning, she turned her back on Mrs. Edna Driggs and said to Eddie, "Who's with you?"
She was looking at the cape, and Eddie frowned. "A bimbo," he told her. "Picked her up on Seventh Avenue. She wanted to go for a sail so I took her. She met somebody she knew on the boat and canned me." He smiled ruefully. "Didn't even know her name," he added. "What's yours?"
"Dot."
"That's not a name," he said. "That's punctuation."
She laughed and gave him a playful little push suggestive of long familiarity. He didn't mind. The hard blue chinks had widened into palely pleasant eyes. On a Sunday excursion one slim round-breasted girl is as desirable as another slim round-breasted girl, for they are all misers.
"Of course, my name's Dorothy. Dorothy Haley. What's yours?"
"Joe," he replied. Mysterious and unexplainable is the urge in extremely young men to conceal their real identities. He was not thinking that he had lied, so mechanically and absently had the name leaped to his lips.
"Joe," she repeated. She was standing close to him now, and her eyes, dark and thoughtful, were considering the glittering river. "Aren't you going to tell me your last name?"
"Sure. It's Williams."
"Joe Williams. I use to know another guy named Joe. He had a dandy job at the Chevrolet service station."
