“Did I take you in, light of my home? Do you mean to say you really thought I had forgotten? For Heaven’s sake!”
“You didn’t say a word at breakfast.”
“Ah, but that was all part of the devilish cunning. I hadn’t got a present for you then. At least, I didn’t know whether it was ready.”
“Oh, Archie, you darling!” Lucille’s voice had lost its crushed melancholy. She trilled like a thrush, or a linnet, or any bird that goes in largely for trilling. “Have you really got me a present?”
“It’s here now. The dickens of a fruity picture. One of J. B. Wheeler’s things. You’ll like it.”
“Oh, I know I shall. I love his work. You are an angel. We’ll hang it over the piano.”
“I’ll be round with it in something under three ticks, star of my soul. I’ll take a taxi.”
“Yes, do hurry! I want to hug you!”
“Right-o!” said Archie. “I’ll take two taxis.”
It is not far from Washington Square to the Hotel Cosmopolis, and Archie made the journey without mishap. There was a little unpleasantness with the cabman before starting—he, on the prudish plea that he was a married man with a local reputation to keep up, declining at first to be seen in company with the masterpiece. But, on Archie giving a promise to keep the front of the picture away from the public gaze, he consented to take the job on; and, some ten minutes later, having made his way blushfully through the hotel lobby and endured the frank curiosity of the boy who worked the elevator, Archie entered his suite, the picture under his arm.