It was then almost six. Without waiting to telephone explanations he jumped in a taxi and shot off uptown. At the Drakes' he sent up his name by Thompson, learning with a sudden tightening of the heart that Drake himself was home. He went into the quiet reception room, nervously excited by the approaching crisis, resolved now that it was up, to push it to its ultimate conclusion. As he whipped back and forth, fingering impatiently the shining green leaves of the waxed rubber plant, all at once, to his amazement, Patsie stood before him.
"You here?" he said, stopping short.
She nodded, red in her cheeks, looking quickly at him and away.
"Doris is changing her dress; she'll be down right away. Didn't you get the telegram?"
"I'm sorry— I was out all day."
He stopped and she was silent, both awkwardly conscious of the other. Finally he stammered: "I asked Doris to thank you—for getting my bag ready and—and your message."
"Oh, Bojo," she said impulsively and the spots of red on her cheek spread like names, "I want to speak to you so much. I have been thinking over so many things that I ought to say."
"You can say anything," he said gently.
"Bojo, you must marry Doris!" she said brokenly, joining her hands.
"Why?" he said, too startled to notice the absurdity of the question.