“We’re going the wrong way. What’s Nelson doing?” I raised a hand to rap on the window.
“I told him to take us through the park. Put your hand in your muff. Why did Betty ask you to meet Mr. What’s-his-name from Georgia?”
I know every tone of Roger’s voice, and the one he used to ask that question was chilly. Betty’s plans involved no secrecy, so I said, laughing:
“I think she’s trying to make a match.”
“Oh,” said Roger.
I had thought he would laugh with me, but in that brief monosyllable there was no amusement. It came with a falling note, and it seemed to be a sort of extinguisher on the conversation, a full stop at the end of it, for we both fell silent.
The auto swept up the drive, gray and smooth between gray trees. I could see a reach of deep blue sky with the stars looking big and close, as if they had come down a few billion miles and were looking us over with an impartial curiosity. Across the park the fronts of apartment-houses showed in gleaming tiers, far up into the night, their lights yellower than the stars. It was lovely to glide on, swiftly and smoothly, with the frost gripping the world in an icy clasp while we were warm and snug and so friendly that we could be silent.
“Isn’t this beautiful, Roger?” I said, looking out of the window. “Look on the other side of the park, hundreds of lights in hundreds of homes.”
Roger gave a sound that if I were a writer of realistic tendencies, I should call a grunt.
We met a hansom with the glass down, and on an ascending curve another auto swooping by with two great glaring lamps. I felt quite oddly happy; the menacing figure of Mr. Albertson became no more than a bogy. After all even Betty couldn’t drag me struggling to the altar.