"Aha!" he greeted them in mock-seriousness. "Discovered!"
"Stung"; responded a masculine voice. "So this is why you wouldn't join our party, eh? You sneaked off by yourselves. I didn't think anybody but me would have the nerve to try this place so soon after the snow-storm."
"For Heaven's sake don't give us away, will you?" It was the woman who spoke.... "Who've you got with you?" she added in a lower tone.
"O, a little friend of mine," answered the doctor. "Come over and meet her. I think you know her husband—Hartley, the actor."
I fear the couple whose rendezvous we had discovered were not impressed with the popular actor's wife. My conversation was limited to monosyllables. The omission, I fancy, was not serious. They had their own topic of conversation. It revolved chiefly around the tenth commandment. In fact, one might conclude with perfect assurance that the seventh and the last of the commandments are the raison d'être of all conversation among that set.... I lost count of the drinks. The doctor said that in the future he would provide Maraschino cherries by the bottle for my especial delectation.
When we left the club it was dark. The doctor's friends went at the same time. They had a chauffeur. The doctor's bloodshot eyes made me wish we, too, had one. The cold air, happily, set him right. He drove more carefully than earlier in the day. Perhaps he recognized his own condition. Once he slowed down and looked at his watch.
"We're going to be late," he said. "I've half a mind to telephone that we've picked up a puncture and have gone back to town for repairs. What do you say?" He appeared to be turning the matter over in his mind, but I could see that he was not taking me into consideration.
"No, we can't do that," I said without too much emphasis. "Mr. Hartley would be worried."
He smiled at me as he replaced his watch. "Yes, I guess you're right; it will have to wait until some other time." He patted the covers above my lap. "Little Girl," he murmured, rather too tenderly. I was glad I could not see his eyes. The car shot ahead. For the next half hour I had a bewildering sense of flying over the snow-clad earth, coming now and then in contact with it as the car struck a rut. The lights, striking against the stalactited branches of the trees and foliage, scintillated like the tiara of a comic-opera star—or the Diamond Horseshoe on society night at the Metropolitan.