She was ahead of him. She knew what he was going to say. It had happened so many times before. He was going to try to find out where she lived. He wanted her telephone number. It was simple. She didn’t live anywhere. She had a trunk stored with Loraine with some books in it—Captain Hornblower,6 and a Life of Beethoven,7 and some paper books of the short stories of Saroyan,8 and some old evening dresses to be made over. She knew Louie was having trouble. She knew that blush that rose out of a man’s collar and the thickness of labored speech. She saw Louie glance apprehensively in the mirror at
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