How she liked the sheer mannishness of it! And she wondered what Langley would have answered and tried to interpret what he might have said. But Anthony hardly listened. He wanted to drop the argument or the tirade and to be personal now. He wanted to talk about her and how much he would like to do things with her. Over their large cups of coffee and cream their acquaintanceship ripened into friendship.
“I don’t approve of half the things you say,” laughed Horatia. “But I like you anyhow.”
“Of course you must.”
“We’ll have to go,” she sighed. “It must be eight o’clock.”
“It’s half-past nine,” said Wentworth triumphantly. “Have you always an hour at which you must fly away?”
“And no glass slippers. Isn’t it bad luck?”
He wrapped her closely in the fur robe, tucking it in with never a sentimental gesture and then they were off, skimming through the white night. At her door he said good-night.
“We must have lots of good times,” he said.
She wanted to tell him about Jim, but it seemed like assuming that his interest was unduly sentimental. After all there hadn’t been a touch of that in his manner. And Jim had insisted that it be a secret. Next time it might be more natural to tell Anthony about her love.
She slept hard and dreamed of Anthony Wentworth attacking a laborer who was throwing bombs at his head. She was all for Anthony in the dream.