She rushed out the minute the class was over. She was very anxious to get home. And there he was, waiting for her, standing under a street lamp where the light streamed on his arrogant face, a slim, foppish figure, with a walking stick. She felt suddenly angry at him; replied with coldness to his greeting.
“It was such a nice evening,” he said, “I couldn’t stand that filthy place.”
It was; sweet, calm, fresh, with a bright little moon overhead.
“I thought perhaps you’d like to walk a bit,” he said, “if you’re not tired.”
She hesitated imperceptibly, then accepted.
“A few blocks,” she said. “I shouldn’t like to be late.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked presently.
Frances said she didn’t, and they began strolling, quite aimlessly, uptown.
“I say!” he exclaimed, “It’s very decent of you to come. You Americans are unconventional, aren’t you?”
“Not all of us,” said Frances drily.