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blamed him much if he had been sore. I looked like the wrath of God. When I left New York I wasn't wearing the proper clothing for a trip of this kind; and noticing the expensive grey tweeds he had on, I became all the more conscious of my sweaty, dollar polo shirt and my ragged pants. Well, maybe we didn't look much alike.
    He did most of the talking during the rest of the hour we were in the cafe. I ate. He rambled on about his family who lived in Bel-Air, his kid sister he had always been so crazy about, his mother who had died the year before he ran away, his father whom he had always despised, and stuff like that. Every now and then I'd come out with a “Yes?” or an “Is that so?” but I wasn't paying much attention. That steak kept me busy. It was a little tough—I guess it wasn't cooked enough—but need I mention I enjoyed it? It tasted like the manna must have tasted to the starving Jews wandering around in the wilderness for God knows how long. I began to feel myself again with that under my belt, and the morbid pictures I'd been conjuring up in my mind for weeks suddenly went like Margaret Mitchell's book. By the time the dessert came I was in such a pleasant frame of mind that even the thought of Sue out there alone among the Hollywood wolves did not bother me.
    And, believe you me, that's saying something. Sue was—and for that matter must still be—a gal who can bother anybody under the age of seventy. Pretty as a dream, blonde and green-eyed, it is her habit to open those big eyes wide, pout that red Cupid mouth, and crawl right in under a guy's skin. That is exactly the way she crawled in under mine. But once she's there she festers and it takes plenty of time and liquor to get her out of your system. One fellow I know back in New York stayed in love with her for months after she handed him his hat. He used to walk around in a fog and get drunk every night. Once he even tried to commit suicide. That's the way Sue affects people. But let me tell you how I happened to get mixed up with her. I know it's the old story, but I like to think about it.
    I met her while I was playing first fiddle in a little club on West 57th Street, not far from Columbus Circle. I was only doing that sort of work to force my old man off the relief rolls. He wanted me to go on studying under Professor Puglesi; but I'm funny that way. I don't like people making any sacrifices for me—not even my own father. As it was, my dad almost died of shame when I came home one day and told him what I was doing and that I intended to keep it up. And the professor? Well, he damned near blew his cork.
    “A concert violinist playing jazz music in a cheap night club! Ye gods! My boy, in three—maybe even two—years I will have you making your debut. You will be the envy of everybody who can call himself a musician. Believe what I am telling you and quit this foolish job right away.”
    And nothing he could say would change my mind. I told myself that if I really had something on the ball it would come out no matter what I did. Besides, how did I know I was as good as I was cracked up to be? I had only the professor's word for it, and maybe he was dishing out a lot of hot air so he could keep getting that two bucks a lesson.
    Anyway, that's how I fell in with Sue. Only don't get the idea she was one of the club's headliners or plugged songs or sold cigarettes. She was just one of the fifteen-dollar-a-week cuties in the floor-show chorus. She was great on looks, but the dance-director used to complain to Bellman that she had two left legs. That may or may not have been true, but to me she stood out like nobody's business, making the rest of the girls look sick and sixty. Her hair was about the color of polished brass, with that same metallic shine to it; and it fell down to her shoulders, and it was straight except for the ends, which she kept curled under. It formed a perfect frame for that delicate nose and those enormous dark green eyes.