“M-m-m!” she said; “it’s a Cleopatra.”

“Nop.”

“A El Dorado.”

“Guess again.”

“A what, then?”

“It’s a Habana Queen.  Habana because it reminds me of Hanna.”

“Aw—­you!”

At this crowning puerility Mr. Kaminer paused suddenly, as if he had detected in his laughter a bray.

“Is Habana in the war, Lew?”

“Darned if I know exactly.”

“Ain’t this war just terrible, Lew?”

“Don’t let it worry you, girl.  If it puts you out of business, remember, it’s boosted my stocks fifty per cent.  You know what I told you about chicken feed.”

She buried her nose in her handkerchief, turning her head.  Her eyes had begun to crinkle.

“It—­it’s just awful!  All them sweet boys!”

“Now, cryin’ ain’t goin’ to help.  You ‘ain’t got no one marchin’ off.”

“That’s just it.  I ’ain’t got no one.  Everything is something awful, ain’t it?” Her sympathies and her risibilities would bubble to the surface to confuse her.  “Awful!”

He scraped one forefinger against the other.

“Cry-baby!  Cry-baby, stick your little finger in your little eye!”

She regarded him wryly, her eyes crinkled now quite to slits.

“You can laugh!”

“Look at the cry-baby!”

“I get so darn blue.”

“Now—­now—­”

“Honest to Gawd, Lew, I get so darn blue I could die.”

“You’re a nice girl, and I’d like to see anybody try to get fresh with you!”

“Do you—­honest, Lew—­like me?”

“There’s something about you, girl, gets me every time.  Cat-eyes!  Kitty-eyes!”

“Sometimes I get so blue—­get to thinkin’ of home and the way it all happened.  You know the way a person will.  Home and the—­divorce and the way it all happened with—­him—­and how I come here and—­where it’s got me, and—­and I just say to myself, ‘What’s the use?’ You know, Lew, the way a person will.  Back there, anyways, I had a home.  There’s something in just havin’ a home, lemme tell you.  Bein’ a somebody in your own home.”

“You’re a somebody any place they put you.”

“You never seen the like the way it all happened, Lew.  So quick!  The day I took the train was like I was walkin’ for good out of a dream.  Not so much as a post-card from there since—­”

“Uh—­uh—­now—­cry-baby!”

“I—­ain’t exactly sorry, Lew; only God knows, more’n once in those twelve weeks out of work I was for goin’ back and patchin’ it up with him.  I ain’t exactly sorry, Lew, but—­but there’s only one thing on God’s earth that keeps me from being sorry.”

“What?”

“You.”

He flecked his cigar, hitching his arm up along the chair-back, laughed, reddened slightly.

“That’s the way to talk!  These last two nights you been lightin’ up with a man so he can get within ten feet of you.  Now you’re shoutin’!”