Janey felt the warm glow of triumph, and it deepened as the man put a dollar bill down on the bar to pay for her drink. If she had gotten him to buy her a drink without even asking, all the rest would follow smoothly enough.

“Oh, no, you mustn’t,” Janey said as he paid for her drink.

“Don’t worry about it, Miss, Miss—”

“Cartwright. Jane Cartwright.”

“Jane. It’s a nice name.”

“Thank you,” Janey said demurely.

They talked for a little while. His name was Ron Martin, he was an architect, he lived in Philadelphia, and he had come down to this resort city for a couple of weeks of fun and relaxation. He was, of course, unmarried. But that part was all right, she thought. If he came from Philadelphia, he would certainly prefer to pay up than to get involved in a scandal that might hit the local papers and ruin his architectural business.

She gave him the usual line—that she was a local girl, that her father was dead and her mother quite poor, that a Hollywood producer had once met her and promised her a screen test if she went to Hollywood, but she had never been able to afford the fare across the country.

Ron Martin ate it all up, nodding sympathetically at every turn of the tale. Janey kept her eye on the clock, and as the time approached nine she began letting it be known less and less subtly that she was interested in going to bed with him.

Finally she said—she had had two martinis, he had had three, but every time he turned his head she had dumped a little of her drink into a nearby waterglass so she could remain sober and in control of the situation—“It’s getting pretty crowded in here, isn’t it, Ron? And I think I’ve had about enough to drink, at least for now. How about you and me clearing out of here?”

“Fine idea. Where to? A late movie? A stroll by the beach?”

She grinned conspiratorially at him. “How about upstairs?”

His room was on the sixteenth floor, with a big picture window overlooking the ocean. He had a double bed, though he was the only occupant of the room—so either he liked to have a lot of room when he slept, or else he had a lot of company in bed.

He drew the blinds, shutting off the view, and then pulled her to him for a passionate kiss. This was the best part of the whole routine, Janey thought.

* * *

She kept her eye on the clock by the side of the bed. At twenty minutes to ten she gasped and said, “I’d better get going! If I’m not home by ten-thirty my mother gets terribly worried, and her heart isn’t so good—”

“Do you have to go?”

“Yes. I have to.”