North of Central Park it is permissible to deliver such ultimatums after having done hardly any research work on the subject.
Dot's self-elected companion seemed interested in her diagnosis.
"You're the second person who has told me that," he said. "The first one was a brain specialist. A great uncouth chap with a mustache."
"Say, are you trying to pick me up?" asked Dot.
"Not today," he responded. "I'm just after a little light conversation, but if you'll come around Thursday—"
"Don't flatter yourself," said Dot and walked swiftly southward with the gentleman at her elbow.
He kept to her stride and talked into her ear as they traveled. "If you're not a bootlegger's mistress," he said, "would you mind telling me whose mistress you are?"
Dot stopped short and faced him. There was no anger in her glance now. She put her question as though they had been conversing under the most pleasant circumstances for hours. "What does mistress mean?" she asked.
The man looked back at her without raillery in his eyes. He was tall and gray-eyed, and his amused grin died abashed.
"Why, mistress is the word for a woman who has illicit sex relations with a man," he said. "For instance, Du Barry was King Louis' mistress. Do you see?"
Dot nodded. When she looked around again, her masher was hopping in a cab. Dot resolved never to go window shopping downtown again. These guys were too hard to handle.
Well, all right, stay in Harlem. Walk from Bim's West End. Theater to the Drusilla Dress Shop. Many a girl would give her right arm for a husband like Eddie. Walk, drink chocolate malteds, visit friends, go to the movies,
