"I've been thinking—something unusual for me—and I don't believe we're either of us quite ready to take the fatal plunge. How does it strike you?"
"I'm in no hurry," Miss Banniman said, indifferently. "Let's call it off for the present. We can try it on again in the autumn, if we feel like it."
"Mighty sensible of you," Van Dam told her, with relief.
"Oh, that's all right! Don't let this keep you away from Pinehurst, however. The season's nearly over, and we'll need you for a foursome." She extended her hand, and Van Dam took it gratefully.
Her father called from the elevator: "See you in a few days, Roly. Good luck with your business, and don't take any bad money." Mr. Banniman's use of slang was neither brilliant nor original, but he was chuckling as the car shot up out of sight.
Van Dam hastened to the desk and called for a city directory, then ran through it to the L's.
"L-a, L-e—" Ah, there it was! "Le Duc, Félice—wid. res. 247 Boule St."
He made a note of the address, then settled his hat upon his head, lit a cigarette, and walked jauntily out into the evening and turned toward Canal Street. It was growing cool; the street lights were gleaming; long rows of them were festooned for blocks in all directions, blazing forth in fanciful designs. In a short time now the Rex parade would be under way, with its countless floats depicting "The Age of Romance."
"Romance, indeed!" smiled Mr. Van Dam, contentedly. Why this was the age of romance. Something recalled Mr. Banniman's parting words to him—"bad money!" The young man paused abruptly. "Bad money!" What a coincidence! He pictured a safe sunk into a library wall, an open cash-drawer jammed with neatly pinned packages of crisp, new ten-dollar bank-notes. Then he recalled the story of the garrulous old shop-woman.
Roly came to himself with a jerk. He began to laugh.