“Go ahead.” He pulled the rug over me. “It’s a nipping cold night abroad. Let’s hear what it was you wanted to talk about.”
For a moment I thought of telling him of Lizzie Harris and Mr. Masters, then I knew that wouldn’t do. Lizzie’s secrets were my secrets. I had to tell him something and in my embarrassment I told him the first thing that came into my head.
“Betty asked me to dinner to meet a man from Georgia.”
As soon as I had said it I had a sick feeling that he might be wondering why I should stop him on Fifth Avenue at eleven o’clock of a winter’s night, to impart this piece of intelligence.
He received it with the dignity of a valuable communication.
“Did she? And what was he like?”
“Very charming. His name’s Albertson and he has cotton mills down there.”
“Must be a man of means.”
“I believe he is.”
It was very nice of Roger to take it so simply and naturally, but you can always rely on his manners. My embarrassment passed away. The auto sped out into the concentrated sparklings of Plaza Square, then swerved to the left, sweeping round the statue of Sherman led to victory by a long-limbed and resolute angel.