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hard up for an escort. Boyfriends she had plenty of, although she would never have called them that. Guys who had taken her out, would do it again if she gave them the chance, but would prefer to take her in. She couldn’t stoop to a last-minute call for rescue in that direction, nor appeal to a gentleman of her class if there had been any around. There weren’t. There wasn’t anyone around she could turn to in a last-minute emergency. Except little old contemptible me.
    So I got the nod, along with an icy lecture on behavior, manners, how to clean my nails and a few other niceties. I still had the evening clothes Emmaline dear bought me, not yet having reached the point where I would have to hock them to eat. Reggie had an elegant black-and-chrome Mercedes-Benz she didn’t use very much. She gave me a wad of franc notes with which to hire a chauffeur for the evening and meet other expenses. (“I’ll expect a strict accounting, mind you.” “Yes, ma’am.” “And if you say yes, ma’am, to me once again this evening, I’ll scream!” “It won’t be necessary to scream, ma’am. I’ll call you Reggie, Hon.”) We took off for the doings, after I had gallantly presented her with an expensive corsage I bought with her money. I thought she would appreciate the gesture when she found it on the expense account.

Chapter Two

    It was quite a gala, the charity ball. I don’t know how much the poor benefited from it, but I had a hell of a time. I looked and felt sharp in Emmaline dear’s dinner clothes, the champagne was plentiful and good, the food was superb, the music was the kind I liked to dance to, and Reggie knew the moves. I’m strictly a club-fighter on the dance floor. With another stum-blebum, I stumble too. With a good dancer, I’m a lot better. Reggie was thistledown on her feet, and she never made a misstep. She presented me to some other women she knew at the party and I danced with them while she danced with other men who came up to ask her. She didn’t have to sit any of the dances out unless she wanted to, and I was kept circulating. But dancing with the other dolls wasn’t like dancing with Reggie. It was an odd thing. She was just as cool, as remote and withdrawn from me as ever, and yet somehow, when she was in my arms, she seemed to—well, fit there. She made me feel big and strong and chivalrous. I wanted to do something for her, damn it. The poor little rich girl was such a sad sack inside her dungeon, she made me sad for her. All that money, and no fun.
    Part of it was the champagne, of course. But not all of it. For one crazy moment, out there with her on the dance floor, holding her in my arms, I thought of sticking my lips against her ear and telling her the old three-word tale that hooks so many of them. It would have been pure con, the worst possible gesture I could have made, but I considered it. Very briefly. I considered a lot of other approaches less briefly while we danced. Nothing sensible came to me.
    We drank quite a lot. It was good champagne, as noted. Along about two or three in the morning she wanted a breath of fresh air, so we went out into the gardens overlooking the sea. There was a big moon, stars, the scent of flowers, a nice setting. Other couples were there enjoying it, too, but they weren’t in our laps. We leaned against a balustrade hanging over a cliff and smoked a cigarette.
    While I was trying to think of something pleasant and harmless to say, she said thoughtfully, “Curlilocks, d’y’know, you could really make something of yourself, if you tried.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I said.
    She didn’t notice it. She said, “You have looks, intelligence, a good bit of personal charm, a fine body— you should be ashamed of yourself.”
    “I am,” I said. “I truly am. All those things working for me, and no sex appeal.”
    “I suppose you have even that, for a certain type of woman. Obviously you have. I think it’s a good part of your trouble, actually.