He was dressed quietly in
clothes of perfect fit made for him by Colin Whitford's tailor. From
shoes to hat he was a New Yorker got up regardless of expense. But the
warm smile, the strong, tanned face, the grip of the big brown hand
that buried her small one--all these were from her own West. So too
had been the nonchalance with which he had stepped from the rail of one
moving bus to that of the other, just as though this were his usual
method of transfer.
"I've got a job at last," she explained to him. "I couldn't hardly
find one. They say I'm not trained to do anything."
"What sort of a job have you?"
"I'm working downtown in Greenwich Village, selling cigarettes. I'm
Sylvia the Cigarette Girl. At least that's what they call me. I carry
a tray of them evenings into the cafes."
"Greenwich Village?" asked Clay.
Kitty was not able to explain that the Village is a state of mind which
is the habitat of long-haired men and short-haired women, the brains of
whom functioned in a way totally alien to all her methods of thought.
The meaning of Bohemianism was quite lost on her simple soul.
"They're jist queer," she told him. "The women bob their hair and wear
smocks and sandals. The men are long-haired softies. They all talk
kinda foolish." Kitty despaired of making the situation clear to him
and resorted to the personal. "Can't you come down to-night to The
Purple Pup or The Sea Siren and see for yourself?" she proposed, and
gave him directions for finding the classic resorts.
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