wanted to talk—he wanted to talk madly, seductively, wickedly. He would excite her by uttering, in grave respectful tones, honestly, matter-of-factly, the most erotic suggestions.
“I guess you like the tall ones, don’t you?” said Louise. “A tall fellow wouldn’t want a little thing like me, would he? Although,” she said quickly, “you never know. They say opposites attract each other.”
“I don’t like tall girls,” said Eugene. “They’re too skinny. I like them about your size, when they’ve got a good build.”
“Have I got a good build,’Gene?” said Louise, holding her arms up and smiling.
“Yes, you have a pretty build, Louise—a fine build,” said Eugene earnestly. “The kind I like.”
“I haven’t got a pretty face. I’ve got an ugly face,” she said invitingly.
“You haven’t got an ugly face. You have a pretty face,” said Eugene firmly. “Anyway, the face doesn’t matter much with me,” he added, subtly.
“What do you like best,’Gene?” Louise asked.
He thought carefully and gravely.
“Why,” he said, “a woman ought to have pretty legs. Sometimes a woman has an ugly face, but a pretty leg. The prettiest legs I ever saw were on a High Yellow.”
“Were they prettier than mine?” said the waitress, with an easy laugh.
She crossed her legs slowly and displayed her silk-shod ankle.
“I don’t know, Louise,” he said, staring critically. “I can’t see enough.”
“Is that enough?” she said, pulling her tight skirt above her calves.
“No,” said Eugene.
“Is that?” she pulled her skirt back over her knees, and displayed her plump thighs, gartered with a ruffled band of silk and red rosettes. She thrust her small feet out, coyly turning the toes in.
“Lord!” said Eugene, staring with keen interest at the garter. “I never saw any like that before. That’s pretty.” He gulped noisily. “Don’t those things hurt you, Louise?”
