Susan’s costume in the Night and Day number in the last revue had been abbreviated and skin-tight; but had it been as tight as all that? I twitched the cord of the Venetian blinds and looked at the murals again. The sharp line between her legs had disappeared and the shape of her breasts was merely hinted at.

“It is too cold for summer clothes,” Gerda said.

“You don’t have to wear them,” I said. “But maybe it’ll be warmer later on.”

“I shall not be here,” Gerda said. She sat down on one of the stools against the wall table and pulled out a packet of Peter Stuy­vesant. I lit her cigarette for her.

“Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind. When I go home I won’t smoke at all. My father doesn’t like it.”

She wasn’t wearing any stockings; the down on her legs glit­tered when she crossed them, as if they’d been dusted with span­gles for a cabaret performance.

“I expect your father knows best,” I said.

“You are very like my father, Mr. Lampton. He is a big man and very kind. I am very happy here.”

“Then why do you want to leave?”

“My father is not well.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So I must go very soon. I must go next week.”

“We’ll be very sorry to lose you. The child will miss you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Little children only care for their father and mother. It must be so. And Barbara is Daddy’s girl, isn’t it?”

“It happens like that sometimes,” I said.

“It’s so with me, though I love my mother too.” She swung her leg and the spangles weren’t there any longer. Now her legs weren’t simply objects to look at, but objects to touch, to stroke very gently, feeling each separate hair. I took my eyes away with an effort; it was just as well she was leaving.

“Have you told Mrs. Lampton, Gerda?”

“I have only now decided. And you are the man, aren’t you? It is you I must tell first.”