She turned her gaze, that could be so singularly clear, full upon him.
"It is already forgotten."
Strangely enough and with unspoken accord they took to walking then at a clip that was almost a rush and created quite a wind in their faces. It was their first meeting out of office and here they were half running through a cool and winey half darkness and utterly without destination.
She stopped abruptly at West Fourteenth Street, beyond the thunder of the Sixth Avenue Elevated and where the sky line began to dip down toward the piers.
"Good night," she said, throwing back her head to look up at him from under the low brim of sailor.
He whipped off his resiliently soft hat, hugging it under one arm.
"Of course," he said, "of course," mopping at his forehead and so unstrung that she could have laughed. "I'm sorry. I beg your pardon. Is this where you live?"
They were before a greasily lighted taxidermist's window of mounted raccoon, fox terrior with legs curled for running, and an owl on a branch.
"No," she said, eying the owl, "I don't live here," and were both off into a gale of laughter that swept down the barriers of self-restraint.
"We've both been walking it off," she said, easily. "Here is where I turn for home."