Punctually at seven, a closed auto stopped before the “Cawthorne” and Quincy alighted. Mary stepped from the elevator, wearing a new spring costume and a marvellous aggregation of flowers upon her hat, walked to the door without looking at Mr. Cass, and before he could frame one of his employer's tenacious points and follow her, she had been handed into the auto and whirled swiftly away.
“Is Alexander driving?” she asked. “No. He's asleep—up too late last night. We have a strange chauffeur. I selected him for that reason.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“I didn't wish anybody to know where we had gone.”
“Why not, pray?”
“I mean, what we'd gone for.”
“Nonsense. Why, a friendly call—what more?”
“Are your gloves on?”
“No, I didn't have time. I'll put them on now.”
“No hurry—plenty of time. You are agitated. Allow me to feel your pulse.”