"I like to watch them . . ." She lifted one arm wearily and swept her heavy, straight hair away from her neck.

Others of the cast, mostly bit players like themselves, drifted in, waved greetings, and took adjacent tables.

"See," Pat said, "They all come here."

"Like to show themselves off," Gene snarled. "Big frogs in a little pool." Pat sighed and turned her attention to the menu.

"How about a cocktail?" Gene asked.

"You have one. I'll have a drink later."

The waitress took their order and Pat sat back and rested her head against the quilted leather. From this position she could look at the clock above the bar without seeming to. Behind the bar a good-looking young negro played very loud piano. Conversation was impossible. Gene drank his cocktail too quickly and ordered another.

"Sure you don't . . . ?"

"No." Only the slight impatience in Pat's voice and the restlessness of her hands betrayed her. Otherwise she seemed relaxed, at peace.

The food arrived, hot roast beef sandwiches with gravy. Gene attacked his ardently, the disgruntled expression on his face gradually smoothing out. The pianist took an intermission and softer music backgrounded the buzz of voices. "C'mon, honey, eat!" Gene urged.

"Here comes Bouchard," Pat said. There was a feeling of suppressed excitement among the habitues as the star of the show entered. With his entourage he took a reserved booth near the front of the bar.

"Must have got the word." Gene remarked. “I thought he'd wind up in here sooner or later."

Pat forced a laugh. She toyed with her food, her eyes wandering around the now crowded room. The restlessness was in her shoulders now and in the movements of her head. A couple of young women, short-haired and dressed in slacks came in and spoke to a bartender. He gestured toward a side door and the pair wormed their way thru the crowd and disappeared. Pat glanced sideways at her husband but he had not noticed.

"I think I'd like a drink now." she said. "Let's go to the bar. I'm tired of sitting."

She sipped whiskey and water and tried not to look at the clock. Gene was taking his whiskey straight, his antagonism toward the surroundings diminishing noticeably. Tam and Mollie from the chorus joined them and Gene bought drinks all around.

"Kids," Pat said, "entertain Gene, will you? I gotta go." She turned from the bar and walked slowly toward the side door.

"Honey," Tam called after, "little girls' room is back there . . . " Pat pretended not to hear.

"She always goes upstairs." Gene shrugged. "Says its cleaner."

Pat mounted the winding stairs unhurriedly, as though wanting to prolong the anticipation which beset her. She went past the door labeled "Ladies" and entered the dimly lit room next to it.

A small bar at the far end was filled and most of the tables also. A few couples danced to music from the juke box. There were no men in the room. Berta arose from the table set back into the recess beside the blazing fireplace. She put out her hand and drew Pat down onto the seat beside her.

"Darling," she said. "I thought you'd never come."

11