Naturally Porter Robinson had no objections to driving at midnight in a closed cab through the park with the prettiest, liveliest, most piquant girl he had met in many a season.
But a half hour later Sylvia flashed into the library at the Lathams with wrath and shame in her heart and ran square into Jack standing with his back to the fireplace.
"Ugh! I hate men," she greeted him stormily.
"You do! What's up? Where is Jeanette? You look like a Valkyr or an avenging fury."
"I don't know where Jeanette is. Porter Robinson brought me home."
"Oh," comprehended Jack. "So that is the rumpus. Didn't Porter behave like a perfect gentleman?"
"He did not." Sylvia threw off her cloak with a wrathful gesture, leaving her slim, rounded young loveliness, clad in the white tulle and gold "dream," suddenly revealed to Jack's eyes. "He tried to kiss me, if you must know."
"And what did you expect at this time of night when you had shed your lawful chaperones?" inquired Jack blandly. "Especially after you had been flirting like the mischief with him all the evening!"
Sylvia slipped into a chair and stared up at Jack. "How did you know?" she asked with astonished meekness.
Jack laughed.