It was a grand parlor, Hiram thought. There was a piano, a phonograph, a whatnot filled with specimens of quartz, and four cloth-covered cushion rockers. With rattlesnake fairness the one Hiram chose squeaked a warning before it tried to land him on the back of his neck.
Hiram sat there round-eyed and dreaming, while outside the hired car purred on, indifferent to the flight of time.
Twenty minutes later Hiram's dream was broken by the clatter of Lucy's high heels on the stairs. Lucy entered, dressed in silk and furs and wearing a large picture hat. The savings of many months were on Lucy's back, and Hiram felt further removed from her than ever.
"Where'll we go?" he asked miserably as he clumsily helped her into the car.
"Golden Gate Park, Mr. Hooker," she said.
The driver, having heard, touched his cap, and they rolled away.
"How'd you know my name?" The burden of keeping this question had been overriding Hiram's bashfulness since she had spoken it.
Lucy laughed. "You didn't think I'd go so far as to invite you home with me if I didn't know you, did you? At least kinda know you?"
"I hadn't thought about that at all, ma'am. But when you said 'Mr. Hooker' it gave me a jolt."
"I'll bet it did. Well, didn't you stand in front of the jewelry shop for over a quarter of an hour before the fire this morning?"