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Orson J.'s fee, as he handed it to the gigolo, was the kind that mounted grandly into dollars instead of mere francs. The gigolo's face, as he took it, was not more inscrutable than Mary's as she watched him take it. From that afternoon, throughout the next two weeks, if any girl as thoroughly fine as Mary Hubbell could be said to run after any man, Mary ran after that gigolo.
During the three days of their gigolo's absence Mrs. Hubbell and Mary availed themselves of the professional services of the Italian gigolo Mazzetti. Mrs. Hubbell said she thought his dancing was, if anything, more nearly perfect than that What's-his-name, but his manner wasn't so nice and she didn't like his eyes. Sort of sneaky. Mary said she thought so, too.
"Now you," she said, brutally, "are a person of some education, refinement, and background. Yet you are content to dance around in these these well, back home a chap might wash dishes in a cheap restaurant or run an elevator in an east side New York loft building, but he'd never " A very faint dull red crept suddenly over the pallor of the gigolo's face.
He did not seem to look directly at Mary, or at Orson J. or at Mrs. Hubbell, as he spoke. The dance concluded, Mrs. Hubbell came back breathless, but enchanted. "He has beautiful manners," she said, aloud, in English. "And dance! You feel like a swan when you're dancing with him. Try him, Mary." The gigolo's face, as he bowed before her, was impassive, inscrutable. But, "Sh!" said Mary.
"Nonsense! Doesn't understand a word." Mary danced the next dance with him. They danced wordlessly until the dance was half over. Then, abruptly, Mary said in English, "What's your name?" Close against him she felt a sudden little sharp contraction of the gigolo's diaphragm the contraction that reacts to surprise or alarm. But he said, in French, "Pardon?"
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