But presently, with an effort, blinking, he pulled his wits together; and a traffic policeman creating a favourable opening, the two scurried across and plunged into the comparative obscurity of West Thirty-eighth Street: sturdy George and his modest Violet already a full block in advance.
Discovering this circumstance by the glimmer through the shadows of Violet's conspicuously striped black-and-white taffeta, P. Sybarite commented charitably upon their haste.
"If we hurry we might catch up," suggested Molly Lessing.
"I don't miss 'em much," he admitted, without offering to mend the pace.
She laughed softly.
"Are they really in love?"
"George is," replied P. Sybarite, after taking thought.
"You mean she isn't?"
"To blush unseen is Violet's idea of nothing to do—not, at least, when one is a perfect thirty-eight and possesses a good digestion and an infinite capacity for amusement à la carte."
"That is to say—?" the girl prompted.