Amy was full of regrets that she could not at this hour with propriety ask Mr. Rose into Mrs. St. Aubyn's drawing-room, and as Paul inhospitably neglected to offer his quarters, the floor-walker, with unflagging cordiality and self-possession, took himself off.
"I don't cotton to Mr. Rose," said the dentist, in a voice too low for Amy, who was already mounting the stairs. "I hope you don't."
"I don't know him."
"You don't want to know him, take my word for it. This isn't sour grapes because he butted in, mind you. If you knew the city, I wouldn't say a word."
Jean bent a frank gaze upon him under the dim hall light. Paul met it to her satisfaction.
"Thank you for to-night," she said, giving him her hand. "Thank you for all of it; for the theater and the supper and for—this."
Explanations with Amy were impossible now, but the following morning, which the girls spent luxuriously in bed, proved auspicious. Amy's waking mood was contrite. She owned of her own engaging accord that she had made a goose of herself in the restaurant, suggesting by way of defence that her stepfather must have favored quite another kind of beer. She as frankly conceded that the Rose episode was indefensible, and promised ample apologies to the dentist.
"He'll understand how it was," she said. "Paul's not a Jake Meyer."
"Will Mr. Rose understand?" asked Jean, pointedly.
Amy shot her a sidelong glance.