"You embarrass me a little—yet. I have to get used to you, and the restaurant seems less—intimate."
"When do you go to the theatre?"
"Seven o'clock. Are you coming?"
"Certainly."
"Dinner at six-fifteen. You'll hate that, won't you?"
"There may be compensations," dryly. He held the door open for her, between the two suites. "Oh, bother that boy, he carried off the key to this door," he added.
"We don't need it," she said.
"Thank you," he bowed.
Dinner was hurried and unsatisfactory. For the most part they were silent. Bob needed her reserves for the night's work, and deliberately set herself against the impulse to entertain him. He talked to her, as they drove to the theatre, so quietly and casually, that she knew she had dreamed it all—that he would go out of her life at the stage door.