“I’m awfully glad you looked me up.... And say, Jan, you like Ruthie, don’t you? Don’t you think she’s a nice little woman? Not your style exactly,—no side, or anything like that,—but she’s a damned agreeable little person, hey? ... You’re not sore at me now, are you, for that rotten trick I played on you? I’d never have done it if it had been up to me. It was the lawyers, you know. They dug up the story and put it over. I’d never have done it,—I swear to God, Jan, I wouldn’t! I’m—I’m sorry as the devil, now; by God, I am!”
“Let’s not talk about it, Martin; it’s all past and forgotten.”
“Well, that’s damned white of you, Jan,—damned white! I always said you were a sensible woman.”
Jeannette turned and held out her hand.
“Aw, say,” Martin protested, “aren’t you going in to the café with me and have some ginger ale or something? I hate to say good-night so soon. There’s a lot of things I want to ask you. I’d like to keep this evening going forever.”
But Jeannette’s one desire was to end it. She wanted her room, to have the door shut and locked behind her, to be alone.
“I’m sorry, Martin——”
“Just a small glass of ginger ale?” he pleaded.
“Thank you, no, Martin; I think I’d better go up.”
“Well, am I not to see you again? You’re not going, until Sunday, are you?”