the old wooden hotel who used to bring him bowls of clam chowder; and some of the grown-ups were still visible. But the small girls seemed to have evaporated, fogged out. Even Ruth herself. He could only recall a distant shrilling of hide-and-seek played after dusk among the sand hills, the running flutter of pink cotton dresses. Why don't little girls wear pink nowadays, he wondered.
"Did she wear a pink dress?"
"Gracious, I don't know. She had green eyes and was awfully shy. If that was her, she's turned out more attractive than I would have thought. Funny, she hasn't bobbed her hair: I thought all artists were supposed to do that."
Ben wasn't greatly interested. His private conviction was that the party would be a bore anyhow: but he couldn't very well return to the newspaper while Ruth was talking. He took off his glasses and polished them.
"What does her husband do?"
"Her husband? She hasn't got one. I suppose she's wedded to her art. I don't think she's the type that's attractive to men."
Ruth regretted this when she had said it, because obviously a little deduction on Ben's part would have led him to her real thread of thought. But he showed no sign of animation, patted her knee
