Eddie took her pressed-plush elbow in the cup of his hand and looked down at her, trying in vain to capture the bright flame of her glance.
"Nothing's the matter, Eddie. Why should I be mad? I been busy—that's all."
The tide of home-going New York caught them in its six-o'clock vortex. Shops emptied and street-cars filled. A newsboy fell beneath a car, and Broadway parted like a Red Sea for an overworked ambulance, the mission of which was futile. A lady in a fourteen-hundred-fifty-dollar unborn-lamb coat and a notorious dog-collar of pearls stepped out of a wine-colored limousine into the gold-leaf foyer of a hotel. A ten-story emporium ran an iron grating across its entrance, and ten watchmen reported for night duty.
"Aw, gee! They're closed! Ain't that the limit now! Ain't that the limit! I wanted some pink tulle."
"Poor kid! Don't you care! You can get it tomorrow—you can work Gregory."
"I—I wanted it for tonight."
"What?"
"I wanted it for my yoke."
They turned into the dark aisle of a side street; the wind lurked around the corner to leap at them.
"Oh-h-h-h!"