“By George, I'd forgot all about the feed!”
By eight o'clock the storm had abated; the rain suddenly stopped, and the moon peeped through the clouds.
He drove the big racer back at a steady, even stride on her lowest notch of speed—half the time with only his right hand on the wheel and his left gripping hers.
As the lights of Manhattan flashed from the hills beyond the Queensborough Bridge, he leaned close and whispered:
“Happy?”
“Perfectly.”
The car was waiting the next day at half-past three.
“It's not far,” he said, nodding carelessly. “You needn't put on the coat. Be there in a jiffy.”
Down Twenty-third Street to Avenue A, down the avenue to Eighteenth Street, and then he suddenly swung the machine through Eighteenth into Avenue B and stopped below a low, red brick building on the corner.
He set his brakes with a crash, leaped out and extended his hands.