"Here is where I
turn for home."
He caught her hand.
"D-don't go. I'd be so grateful--so grateful if you'd have dinner with
me to-night."
"Nonsense!" she said, amazed at her fluency of manner. "You're a bit
unstrung, that's all. Look in at your club or a show."
"Please."
"All right," she said, suddenly, on a little click of teeth. "I'll
come--this once."
"You're a brick," he cried, releasing her hand with a grateful pressure.
She was excited out of all proportions to the event, flushing up with a
sense of adventure and crowded moment.
He began to scan for a cab.
"Let's walk."
"Not a bit of it," bringing one down with a cane. "We're out on a
party."
"But--"
"No buts," helping her in and climbing in after. "Waldorf."
"I'm too shirtwaisted."
"Nothing of the kind. You're as trim as a dime. I like those waists you
wear. They make you look smooth--shining. That's it, you've a shine
to you."
The odor of another drive in an open cab through this same snarl of
traffic was winding about her like mist. That doctor's outer office with
its row of thoughtful chairs. Rembrandt's "Night-Watch.
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