"But—"
"No buts," helping her in and climbing in after. "Waldorf."
"I'm too shirtwaisted."
"Nothing of the kind. You're as trim as a dime. I like those waists you wear. They make you look smooth—shining. That's it, you've a shine to you."
The odor of another drive in an open cab through this same snarl of traffic was winding about her like mist. That doctor's outer office with its row of thoughtful chairs. Rembrandt's "Night-Watch." That frenzied moment of finding the lock! The run up two flights. She sat forward on the slippery leather seat.
"I—I shouldn't have come."
"If you're serious, of course I'll take you home. But I can't tell you how much I want you not to feel that way."
She sat back again.
"I'm behaving like a shop girl."
They both laughed again and complete thaw set in.