Above the hum of chattering voices rose the bellow of the carriage porter:
"Two hundred and thirty! Two hundred and thirty!"
"My car!" said the girl with a start.
P. Sybarite moved in front of her, signalling with a lifted hand.
"Two hundred and thirty," he repeated.
A handsome town-car stood at the curb beneath the permanent awning of iron and glass. Behind it a long rank waited with impatient, stuttering motors and dull-burning lamps that somehow forced home drowsy thoughts of bed.
Hurrying across the sidewalk, Marian permitted P. Sybarite to help her into the vehicle.
Transported by this proof of her graciousness, he gave the chauffeur the address:
"Hotel Plaza."
With the impudent imperturbability of his breed, the man nodded and grunted without looking round.