"By Jove, you'll get me into an awful scrape some day," he remarked cheerfully as he hurried into his overcoat. "I might have lost fifty thousand dollars by letting this thing slip."
His manner had changed completely with the awakened recollection; and finance in all its forms—the look of figures, the clink of coin—had assumed instantly the position of romance in his thoughts. For the moment Laura was crowded from his mind, and she recognised this with a pang sharp and cold as the thrust of a dagger.
"If you only knew how much you'd nearly cost me," were his last words as he ran down the steps.
At the corner he met Gerty's carriage and in response to her inviting gesture, he gave an order to the coachman as he sprang inside.
"Well, this is a godsend," he observed with a grateful sigh while he wrapped the fur rug carelessly about him. "A drive with a pretty woman leaves a surface car a good many miles behind. And you are unusually pretty this morning," he commented with a touch of daring gallantry.
"I ought to be," returned Gerty defiantly, "for heaven knows I take trouble enough about it. Oh, I am glad to see you!" she finished gayly, "how is Laura?"
He met her question with his genial smile. "She makes a pretty good pretence at happiness," he answered.
"And so she's really over head and ears in love?"
"Does it surprise you that she should find me charming?" he asked, laughing.
She nodded with unshaken candour.