Robert ignored the inquiry. He had now eaten all that his capacity permitted, and he began to think of home. Not that homesickness troubled him, but a longing to boast of that day’s experience over the humdrum, matter-of-fact life which had probably gone on in the Second Avenue flat.
“Say, Bon! It’s time fer a feller ter go! Motherkin’ll be gettin’ worried ’bout us.”
“If Mr. Brook will excuse us we will go at once, before the up-town cars get crowded.”
“Golly! Will you ride? Eh?”
“Yes, dear. We are a long way from our own neighborhood now.”
“I know that. But I’ve walked it before, when I didn’t have no such good dinner inside of me. I’d laugh if I couldn’t now!”
“Very well. We’ll try it, then.”
But they were not to be permitted. When they turned to bid their host good-by, they found him with his hat on, ready to accompany them to the street. “You must allow me to put you in a cab, my dears. Yes, yes. Indeed, I shall permit nothing else. You are to say all kind things to the family for me, and I will write your mother or you, after I reach home and have seen Joanna. One thing, remember. I am not a new acquaintance. I am an old and tried friend. You can trust me. You can expect to see a great deal of me, if you will. Good-by.”
“Good-by.” “Good-by! Don’t forget about my visit to you!” “Thank you. Good-by.”
Around whirled the cab, and off up the street sped—no, crawled—the vehicle, among the lines of trucks and wagons, street-cars, hacks, and carriages, till Beatrice felt she could have outstripped that pace on her own light feet.