She frowned a little and then returned: “Yes—oh no, I can’t go out with you to-night.”
His face became tragic. She, possessed by one of her soft moods, played the sympathetic: “Will you be off again this week?”
“Yes—Sunday night—from seven to nine,” he explained in an eager whisper.
“Well?” She waited, smiling.
“Will it be all right then?” he asked, his courage rising.
“All right—Sunday—seven o’clock,” he whispered, hurried out—and forgot his check.
She came after him and caught him at the counter, where he had joined his friends.
“You’ve forgotten your check,” she told him, with a bright glance.
“Oh, yes, thanks,” he stammered.