"Yes. Wait, Ed! Don't say anything—just watch her."
He silenced Nanette's questions. We turned up Fifth Avenue. The dark, tree-dotted park was on our left. Nanette sat quiet, trying to fathom the sudden tenseness which had come to us. Lea stared through her window at the park. Intent. Motionless.
We came into sight of the Metropolitan Museum a few blocks ahead. Alan slowed the car.
"Lea—"
She turned at the sound of her name. She smiled; gestured at the park; reached toward the door of the car.
I exclaimed: "She recognizes it, Alan! She wants to get out. What are you doing?"
He had turned into the cross-street. "Stop here. See what she wants to do."
We opened the car door. I stood at the curb. This cross-street was dim and deserted.
"Lea." She turned again as Alan spoke. She smiled and gestured again toward the park. And pulled at Nanette.
"What is it, Lea, dear?"