was young, slender, in summer linens, her chestnut hair curled perfectly despite two days on the train.
"Mamma is very pretty," Ken said.
'"That's the trouble. She's too pretty. They should have signed her, instead of me."
"You're not so bad," Ken said.
"Texan?" she asked.
"I'm an actor, dancer, I should have said, born in Texas and developed in New York.
"Oh, so you've been developed."
"No. I'm still green."
"I'm seventeen," she volunteered. "I make one-fifty a week now. We're going to New York to buy clothes. Mamma, you see, is very rich. Dad pays her plenty for alimony. We're society people, you see. That's how I got the contract. But I've made good—even so. The studio picked up my option."
"Why are you going to New Orleans?"
"It's Mamma's idea. She wants to take the boat to New York."
She was little. Not exactly petite. But small. Small hands, feet, lips. Her eyes were blue with a sheen of gray green. They alternately laughed and implored. Her nose was straight, yet interesting.
She was curves. A bundle of curves. Rounding curves. Arms white and small. Hair wind-blown. Breasts obviously curving.
Ken observed her. "What shall I call you?" he asked.
"Lou," she said.
"Pretty syllable."
"Yes. Mamma hates it. Mamma likes you, though."
"Why do you say 'though'?"
