There was a twinkle of triumph in Vreeland’s eye as he sank back in his seat.
“I got a dinner out of you at any rate, Mr. Snob,” he gleefully chuckled.
And, highly elated, he decided then and there, to vary his first plan of drifting with the tide, and to cautiously put his oar in a bit where it would help him on.
His step was as light as the tread of a panther when he leaped out of the car at Forty-second Street.
“I’ll have a stolen glance at their women,” he quickly resolved. “Perhaps they may give dinners, too.”
And just then, there seemed to be the twinkle of a little star of Hope lighting up that devious, unknown path which he was so soon to tread.
“I’ll let him give me a Club card,” he mused, as the wearied passengers hurried along to brave the din of importunate jehus.
He was wondering how much of a social show he could make at need with his slender fortune, when the two men slowly approached with three “shining ones” of the golden strata of womanly New York.
“These people are all in the swim,” he murmured. “I will find the way! I am as good as any of them.”
And as he raised his eyes, he met the glances of the imperial-looking woman who was Fred Hathorn’s companion.