"John Quincy came this morning," Roger told her.
"And he's had a bad evening?" the girl said. "How lucky I came along. Where are you taking us, Roger?"
John Quincy stared. Taking them? At this hour?
"I'll be getting along up-stairs," he ventured.
"Why, it's just after twelve," said Barbara. "Lots of places open. You dance, don't you? Let me show you San Francisco. Roger's a dear old thing—we'll let him pay the checks."
"Well—I—I—" stammered John Quincy. His cheek was throbbing and he thought longingly of that bed in the room up-stairs. What a place, this West!
"Come along!" The girl was humming a gay little tune. All vivacity, all life. Rather pleasant sort at that. John Quincy took up his hat.
Roger's chauffeur had lingered a moment before the house to inspect his engine. When he saw them coming down the steps, he looked as though he rather wished he hadn't. But escape was impossible; he climbed to his place behind the wheel.
"Where to, Barbara?" Roger asked. "Tait's?"
"Not Tait's," she answered. "I've just come from there."