“Tell him to drive to the Ladies’ Entrance,” whispered Gloria, who saw that she would have to prompt her untraveled escort.
The order was given and obeyed.
David handed his companion down to the pavement, and paid and discharged the carriage.
“Ask to be shown to the ladies’ parlor. I can remain there until you go and find some minister, and—yes, it will be necessary for you to get a license from the register’s office at the City Hall,” she continued, in a whisper, as they followed an obsequious waiter to an upper front drawing-room that overlooked the avenue.
Gloria threw herself into a chair. There happened to be no other occupants of the parlor, though people, either the inmates of the house or visitors, might enter at any time.
“Will you want rooms, sir? The office is below,” suggested the waiter.
David Lindsay hesitated and looked at Gloria, who murmured:
“No, do not take rooms yet. You would have to register our names, and that would be awkward just now. Wait until afterwards.”
“We do not want rooms, but will take luncheon about noon,” said the young man, turning to the waiter, who then left them and went about his business.
“How will you occupy yourself while I am gone?” inquired David Lindsay, uneasily.