“I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“I’m not.”
“But what makes you think so?”
The cherub placed a hand on the rail of the car, preparatory to swinging herself on board.
“Well, for one thing,” she said, “he’th been stalking you like an Indian ever since we left the theatre! Look behind you. Good-bye, honey. Thend me a piece of the cake!”
The street-car bore her away. The last that Jill saw of her was a wide and amiable grin. Then, turning, she beheld the snake-like form of Otis Pilkington towering at her side.
Mr Pilkington seemed nervous but determined. His face was half hidden by the silk scarf that muffled his throat, for he was careful of his health and had a fancied tendency to bronchial trouble. Above the scarf a pair of mild eyes gazed down at Jill through their tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. It was hopeless for Jill to try to tell herself that the tender gleam behind the glass was not the love-light in Otis Pilkington’s eyes. The truth was too obvious.
“Good evening, Miss Mariner,” said Mr Pilkington, his voice sounding muffled and far away through the scarf. “Are you going up-town?”
“No, down-town,” said Jill quickly.
“So am I,” said Mr Pilkington.