She went. Pretty soon a tall, redheaded girl came in without knocking, just as I'd expected one would. Brown-red hair--long, curled at the ends, and a pair of legs to look at. A girl like a mannequin--but no pose; no hauteur. She had enough sex appeal for the end of anybody's chorus line. She smiled open a wide mouth on even teeth and fixed her hazel eyes on me. Hattie remembered: I had never approved of whores who looked like whores. This one looked like a bright assistant on a magazine--or maybe the wife of a lucky prof. "My name," she said, "is Gwen Taylor. Hattie got stuck for a few minutes--and told me to come in. I've heard a lot about you--here and there." I stood and shook her hand. She briefly grabbed her lower lip with her upper teeth. "Or is that--indelicate?" "No. I'm pleased. And not fooled for a minute. You see--I know Hattie." "After all," said the girl, "it's her profession. She said we were having coffee." Viola came again with a tray. Gwen poured. "There are half a dozen of us around. Would you like to meet them?" "One's enough." Her eyes flickered and she smiled. "Thanks." She handed me the cup, served the sugar with tongs, poured cream, and fixed her own. "Warm night." We talked about that. By and by she nodded toward the radio-phonograph. "Hattie said you like to rumba. So do I." I shook my head. "Sometime--" She looked at me and smiled. "I hope!" Hattie came with the books, by and by. She made an apology. I wrote in both volumes and signed my name and Hattie accompanied me down one of the two long halls with the many shut doors. "Like Gwen?" "Very much." "I thought you would. She's--something! It's been marvelous to see you, Phil. Call me up!" The exceedingly noncommittal elevator man took me back to the street. It was gravy-thick with the smell of the river. I got a cab. It slatted downtown. Once, I leaned forward to tell the driver to turn around. But I didn't speak. 4 There is a metal clip on every door in the Astolat; mail and written messages are put in it--so the guests won't have to stoop. I had a letter. A tidy backhand with little circles for periods and dots over the _i_'s. It looked like a billet-doux from Yvonne--and it was: You meanie! Everything you said got me so tremendously stimulated I couldn't sleep. I decided, after a struggle, if you were going to stir girls up that way, you were responsible for their condition. So I phoned you--and no answer! Don't you know hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? If you feel like a little chitchat when you do come in, phone me. I don't have to work tomorrow so you needn't be scrupulous about the hour. And even if you don't, thanks ever so much for a very disturbing, unsatisfying, lovely evening. Yours, Y It was four o'clock and my body was tired, though my mind was running round and round like a toy electric train. I didn't want to see any more of Yvonne at the moment.