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if you don't move on。〃
〃Who gave you your job？〃 demanded the fat man。
〃Nobody。 I picked it myself。 You can have it if you want it。〃
〃Can't you take a joke？〃
〃Label yours。〃
As the crowd dwindled she played less feverishly； but there was
nothing slipshod about her performance。 The chubby songster found
time to proffer brief explanations in asides。 〃They want the patriotic
stuff。 It used to be all that Hawaiian dope； and Wild Irish Rose stuff； and
songs about wanting to go back to every place from Dixie to Duluth。 But
now seems it's all these here flag wavers。 Honestly； I'm so sick of 'em I
got a notion to enlist to get away from it。〃
Terry eyed him with withering briefness。 〃A little training wouldn't
ruin your figure。〃
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She had never objected to Orville's embonpoint。 But then； Orville
was a different sort of fat man； pink…cheeked； springy； immaculate。
At four o'clock； as she was in the chorus of 〃Isn't There Another Joan
of Arc？〃 a melting masculine voice from the other side of the counter said
〃Pardon me。 What's that you're playing？〃
Terry told him。 She did not look up。 〃I wouldn't have known it。
Played like thata second ‘Marseillaise。' If the wordsWhat are the
words？ Let me see a〃
〃Show the gentleman a ‘Joan；'〃 Terry commanded briefly； over her
shoulder。 The fat man laughed a wheezy laugh。 Terry glanced around；
still playing； and encountered the gaze of two melting masculine eyes that
matched the melting masculine voice。 The songster waved a hand
uniting Terry and the eyes in informal introduction。
〃Mr。 Leon Sammett； the gentleman who sings the Gottschalk songs
wherever songs are heard。 And Mrs。that isand Mrs。 Sammett〃
Terry turned。 A sleek； swarthy world…old young man with the
fashionable concave torso； and alarmingly convex bone…rimmed glasses。
Through them his darkly luminous gaze glowed upon Terry。 To escape
their warmth she sent her own gaze past him to encounter the arctic stare
of the large blonde who had been included so lamely in the introduction。
And at that the frigidity of that stare softened； melted； dissolved。
〃Why； Terry Sheehan！ What in the world！〃
Terry's eyes bored beneath the layers of flabby fat。 〃It'swhy； it's Ruby
Watson； isn't it？ Eccentric Song and Dance〃
She glanced at the concave young man and faltered。 He was not Jim；
of the Bijou days。 From him her eyes leaped back to the fur…bedecked
splendor of the woman。 The plump face went so painfully red that the
make…up stood out on it； a distinct layer； like thin ice covering flowing
water。 As she surveyed that bulk Terry realized that while Ruby might
still claim eccentricity； her song…and…dance days were over。 〃That's
ancient history； m' dear。 I haven't been working for three years。
What're you doing in this joint？ I'd heard you'd done well for yourself。
That you were married。〃
〃I am。 That is Iwell； I am。 I〃
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At that the dark young man leaned over and patted Terry's hand that
lay on the counter。 He smiled。 His own hand was incredibly slender；
long； and tapering。
〃That's all right；〃 he assured her； and smiled。 〃You two girls can have
a reunion later。 What I want to know is can you play by ear？〃
〃Yes； but〃
He leaned far over the counter。 〃I knew it the minute I heard you
play。 You've got the touch。 Now listen。 See if you can get this； and
fake the bass。〃
He fixed his somber and hypnotic eyes on Terry。 His mouth screwed
up into a whistle。 The tunea tawdry but haunting little melodycame
through his lips。 Terry turned back to the piano。 〃Of course you know
you flatted every note；〃 she said。
This time it was the blonde who laughed； and the man who flushed。
Terry cocked her head just a little to one side； like a knowing bird； looked
up into space beyond the piano top； and played the lilting little melody
with charm and fidelity。 The dark young man followed her with a
wagging of the head and little jerks of both outspread hands。 His
expression was beatific； enraptured。 He hummed a little under his breath
and anyone who was music…wise would have known that he was just a half
beat behind her all the way。
When she had finished he sighed deeply； ecstatically。 He bent his
lean frame over the counter and； despite his swart coloring； seemed to
glitter upon herhis eyes； his teeth； his very fingernails。
〃Something led me here。 I never come up on Tuesdays。 But
something〃
〃You was going to complain；〃 put in his lady； heavily； 〃about that
Teddy Sykes at the Palace Gardens singing the same songs this week that
you been boosting at the Inn。〃
He put up a vibrant； peremptory hand。 〃Bah！ What does that matter
now！ What does anything matter now！ Listen MissahMiss？〃
〃Pl…Sheehan。 Terry Sheehan。〃
He gazed off a moment into space。 〃Hm。 ‘Leon Sammett in Songs。
Miss Terry Sheehan at the Piano。' That doesn't sound bad。 Now
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listen； Miss Sheehan。 I'm singing down at the University Inn。 The
Gottschalk song hits。 I guess you know my work。 But I want to talk to
you； private。 It's something to your interest。 I go on down at the Inn at
six。 Will you come and have a little something with Ruby and me？
Now？〃
〃Now？〃 faltered Terry； somewhat helplessly。 Things seemed to be
moving rather swiftly for her； accustomed as she was to the peaceful
routine of the past four years。
〃Get your hat。 It's your life chance。 Wait till you see your name in
two… foot electrics over the front of every