He did not answer. Another crowd had begun to move toward the gates, like a herd seized with a migratory impulse. Perhaps something of that ancient instinct stirred now in Miss Riordan. Certainly she had a melancholy sensation of being left behind, abandoned, while her fellow creatures moved on toward a better land—toward a Staten Island green and fair, where in a glen a cataract came foaming down, and wild flowers grew, very much like a landscape which hung up in her furnished room. Well, didn’t she, too, wish to see that lovely spot?
“I’m going to take the next boat!” she announced, rising.
“All right!” said Louis. “I’m not. Good-by!”
She wavered shamefully between the quite real Louis and the imaginary Staten Island.
“I’m going!” she answered in a loud, firm voice, but added: “Unless you say you’re sorry you were so late.”
“Sure! I’m sorry!” answered Louis readily. “Now let’s go an’ get some dinner somewheres. All dressed up to kill, ain’t you? Bought yourself some flowers an’ everything!”
Miss Riordan had temporarily forgotten her bouquet. She glanced down at the pallid blossoms, fainting in her hot hands, and a very curious emotion came over her.
“No, I did not buy them for myself!” she said vehemently. “They were given to me.”
“Sure!” said Louis. “Rudolph Valentino give ’em to you, didn’t he?”
“Now you look here, Louis! A gentleman gave them to me—he bought them for me.”