She wore the gardenias in her hair--a white dress with a gold border stenciled around the hem--and her shoes and pocketbook were gold, too. The big diamond had evidently been sent down to the safe-deposit boxes, or left on her bureau--depending on which sort of person she was. Her hair was done up--with the curls among the flowers. She looked as attractive as she intended. Cool, too. "Am I stunning?" I nodded. "But not ravishing. If the Hindus had untouchables at the top of the caste system--white priestesses, say--you'd qualify." "You obviously don't know much about priestesses." I rang for the elevator. "That," I pointed, "is my demesne, abode, diggings--" "I know. I asked. And moved." "Why, exactly?" I suppose she wanted her eyes to be interesting. They were just--disturbed. "To tease you." "Tease _whom_?" She blushed the peach tinge I'd noticed before. "Me." Then she shook her head at herself. "Because I'm lonely, maybe. Because I have a kind of phobia about hotels. I don't know." I took her to the Crépuscule--the steps down and the moonlit air conditioning--the blue leather benches--the violin, cello, and piano accordion--the little dance floor in the corner with mirrors on two sides--and the French cuisine. The trio there has rhythm and the cellist plays maracas when he feels like it, so you can rumba. She had a dry Martini and I had tomato juice. Then I asked her and we danced a couple of fox trots. She was a little bit nervous for a minute or so and presently she wasn't. I asked the trio for a bolero; the two other couples quit; and we danced alone. Afterward we danced to a piece called "Cu-Gu-Tu-Ru" which is also known as "Jack-Jack." She understood, technically, about dancing the rumba and she gave some indication of feelings for the part that is more instinctive than planned. Once or twice she tried to lead me--without being aware of it. If you know a good deal about dancing, you can tell a good deal about girls that you'd be a long time in learning by any other means. People are animals--and dancing among animals is several hundred million years older than the species that calls itself Homo sapiens. There was rhythm on the planet long before there were ballrooms. So you can expect vestiges, at least, in woman-the-animal, of impulses which belong to the skeleton, muscles, and nerves and not to society--vestiges specifically interpreted, disciplined or repressed by the individual in your arms. The woman's dancing says, This is what the world has done to me--or hasn't. And it is the same for men--which is why women, who live closer to their instincts, like to dance. This circumstance, alas, has for so long been repudiated by our forebears that the dancing of most American males is rude and boorish and clumsy, at once self-assertive and self-conscious, unimaginative, disrhythmic, unsubtle--paranoid. It is what the world has done to them. You can talk to a woman all night and persuade her of nothing.