“Well,” she said, doubtfully, “he seems to connect you in his mind, somehow, with a boy who was in love with me once—Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald—you know who I mean.”
Ruff nodded.
“He still has that in his mind, has he?” he remarked.
“Oh, he’s mad!” she declared. “However, don’t let us talk about him any more.”
The lights were being put out. Peter Ruff paid his bill and they rose together.
“Come down to the fiat for an hour or so,” she begged, taking his arm. “I have a dear little place with another girl—Carrie Pearce. I’ll sing to you, if you like. Come down and have one drink, anyhow.”
Peter Ruff shook his head firmly.
“I am sorry,” he said, “but you must excuse me. In some ways, I am very old-fashioned,” he added. “I never sit up late, and I hate music.”
“Just drive as far as the door with me, then,” she begged.
Peter Ruff shook his head.