“But what will Mrs. Dykman say?”
“I do not care what she says. She is not ready to go, and I won’t stay any longer. I will go without saying anything to her about it.”
“Very well. There will be comment, but I will see if they have a telephone and order a cab.”
“I won’t go in a cab. I want to walk.”
“But it is snowing.”
“I like to walk in the snow.”
Quintard thought it best to let her have her way. Moreover, a walk through the snow with her would be a very pleasant thing. He hunted up a housemaid and borrowed a pair of high overshoes. Hermia had on a short gown; she pulled the fur-lined hood of her long wrap about her head, Quintard put on the overshoes, and they managed to get out of the house unnoticed. The snow was falling, but the wind lingered afar on the borders of the storm.
“You had better let me call a cab.”
“I will not drive,” replied Hermia; and Quintard shrugged his shoulders and offered his arm.
The walk was not a long one under ordinary circumstances; the house at which the dinner had been given was in Gramercy Park; but, with a slippery pavement and snow-stars in one’s eyes, each block is a mile. Quintard had an umbrella, but Hermia would not let him raise it. She liked to throw back her head and watch the snow in its tumbling, scurrying, silent fall. It lay deep in the long, narrow street, and it blotted out the tall, stern houses with a merry, baffling curtain of wee, white storm-imps. Now and again a cab flashed its lantern like a will-o’-the-wisp.