"Gee, Eddie, you're mean."
Dot walked to the chiffonier and gazed sulkily into Eddie's shaving mirror. Not a trace of powder remained to suggest the careful toilet she had made before going to Loft's corner. Solemnly she found her compact and daubed at her nose and chin. Her lipstick next, then a little vindictive yank at a wave that had slunk into obscurity beneath the soaked felt hat.
"Coming downstairs?" she asked, coldly.
"No, what's the use of that?"
"Then I'm going home," said Dot.
Eddie took a step toward her and surveyed her questioningly. He was sincerely puzzled at the tremendous point Dot made of getting downstairs. A dangerous situation to Eddie was a bulging hip pocket or a length of lead pipe. Anything else was a dame's excuse to pick a fight. Eddie didn't feel like quarreling now.
"Aw, stay a while, Dot. Look," he said with sudden inspiration, "wait here fifteen minutes, and if it ain't stopped raining I'll do whatever you want, or if it has stopped we'll go dance or something. What do you say?"
Dot hesitated and he followed up quickly: "Get your coat and hat off and smoke a cigarette with me. It'll do you good."
"Well, only fifteen minutes," Dot gave in.
She took off her coat and laid it over the iron foot of the bed. Her hat she perched on Eddie's clothes-tree, and he smiled at seeing it there. It looked funny as hell, he said to her. Dot's dress, blue satin with yards and yards of shining braid, was new, but he didn't notice it. Dot didn't expect him to. She would have told you that men never notice clothes.
"Sue Cudahy called me up at the office today," she said. "Pat's got a new job. He's up at a store on Washington Heights. They want us to go to the Poppyland Dance
