"Oh, that's all right." He slowly winked at her. "You'll not have to bump the bumps for being late tomorrow—if you treat me right."
He carried his liquor easily. Only in his eyes and in his ever more slippery smile that would slide about his face did he show that he had been drinking. He helped her into a hansom with a flourish and, overruling her protests, bade the driver go to the Casino. Once under way she was glad; her hot skin and her weary heart were grateful for the air blowing down the avenue from the Park's expanse of green. When Gideon attempted to put his arm around her, she moved close into the corner and went on talking so calmly about calm subjects that he did not insist. But when he had tossed down a drink of whiskey at the Casino and they resumed the drive along the moonlit, shady roads, he tried again.
"Please," said she, "don't spoil a delightful evening."
"Now look here, my dear—haven't I treated you right?"
"Indeed you have, Mr. Gideon."
"Oh, don't be so damned formal. Forget the difference between our positions. Tomorrow I'm going to place a big order with your house, if you treat me right. I'm dead stuck on you—and that's a God's fact. You've taken me clean off my feet. I'm thinking of doing a lot for you."
Susan was silent.
"What do you say to throwing up your job and coming to Chicago with me? How much do you get?"
"Ten."
"Why, you can't live on that."