All about her was a persistent babble of voices, the women’s raucous, hard and cold, mingled occasionally with the guffaws of men. Across the way, through an opening of the portières, she could see an over-dressed girl tilted back in her chair puffing a cigarette. White-aproned waiters passed and repassed, looking neither to the right nor left. She was staring fixedly at the wall, her elbows on the table, her chin on the backs of her hands, when Gay entered a little crossly. She looked up with a smile—almost her old winning smile—though it drooped in a moment and was set again with an effort. "Hello, Gay, here I am again!" she said. She gave him her cold little hand. He drew off his rain coat and sat down, as fresh and pink as ever, the drops still glistening on his cheeks. "What’s up?" he said, touching the electric button and pulling out his cigarette case. "I’m through with Blanchard Cayley," she said, watching him. "It’s about time," he remarked. "Aren’t you glad to see me, Gay?" "Sure!" he answered, without looking at her. He scratched a match, and, after he had lighted his cigarette, looked up at the waiter who appeared in the doorway. "Two Picon punches," he said. Then he turned to her and folded his arms. "What can I do for you, Fancy?" He seemed, somehow, to have grown ten years older since the time they had frolicked together at the beach. His cheek was as blooming, his figure as boyish, but his eyes were a little harder. His voice showed a little more confidence, and his pose was quite that of the man of the world. Much of his charm had gone. "Gay," she said, "we were pretty good friends, once." "That’s what we were, Fancy. How much do you need?" She recoiled as if he had struck her and buried her face in her arms on the table. Her shoulders shook convulsively. "Oh, I didn’t want to graft, Gay, don’t think that! That’s not what I called you up for, really it isn’t!" "What was it, then?" he asked, growing a little more genial. The waiter appeared with two glasses on a tray and set them down on the table. Fancy looked up and wiped her eyes. When they were alone again he said, "Fire away, now. I’ve got a date at ten. I’m sorry I said that, but I didn’t know but you were hard up, that’s all." "Gay," she said, "do you remember what you said that day we went down to Champoreau’s the first time?" "I believe I said all that crowd had the big head, didn’t I?" "That isn’t it, Gay. I wonder if you’ve forgotten already?" "I guess I have. Lots of things have happened since that." He blew a lung-full of smoke into the air over her head. "You’ve said it several times since then. Do you happen to remember asking me to marry you?" "I believe I did make a break like that, now you speak of it. And you threw me down good and hard, too." She got his eyes, and smiled. "You said that—whenever I changed my mind and gave the word—you’d marry me." "Did I?" Gay moved uncomfortably in his chair.