On her way to her room that sultry June night Sophy had encountered the persistent Tack. Ella Morrissey, up in her room, was fathoms deep in work. It was barely eight o'clock and there was a wonderful opal sky—a June twilight sky, of which Paris makes a specialty—all grey and rose and mauve and faint orange.
"Somebody's looking mighty sweet to-night in her new Paris duds!"
Max Tack's method of approach never varied in its simplicity.
"They're not Paris—they're Chicago."
His soul was in his eyes.
"They certainly don't look it!" Then, with a little hurt look in those same expressive features: "I suppose, after the way you threw me down hard the other night, you wouldn't come out and play somewhere, would you—if I sat up and begged and jumped through this?"
"It's too warm for most things," Sophy faltered.
"Anywhere your little heart dictates," interrupted Max Tack ardently. "Just name it."
Sophy looked up.
"Well, then, I'd like to take one of those boats and go down the river to St.-Cloud. The station's just back of the Louvre. We've just time to catch the eight-fifteen boat."