Any number of other girls ran past, some with newspapers over their hats, some laughing, some gravely worried, but he was not perturbed by them. They could stand it. No other living girl was so peculiarly fragile as Miss Patterson, or beset with so many dangers.
“I think it will stop,” said she.
This annoyed him. She was trying to make light of a most serious situation.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Because it always does stop,” she said. “At least, it always has, in the past.”
He turned his head to look at her, and he grew a little dizzy. In the bleak light of that dismal day, Miss Patterson seemed to glow with a strange radiance. Her light hair was like a nimbus under her hat, her blue eyes were lambent, and she chose just that moment to make the color deepen in her cheeks. It was not fair!
“I’ll get a taxi,” he said.
“Oh, no!” she protested. “Please don’t! I live miles and miles uptown.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Hardy, and off he darted.
He stopped a cab with the air of a highwayman, and returned to Miss Patterson. As he put her into the vehicle, a curious change came over them. Hardy ceased to be masterful and severe, and Miss Patterson was no longer dignified. They looked at each other steadily, with a strange sort of despair.