To a woman, the discovery that events do not work out as she had planned comes in the nature of a disappointment. To a man, the same discovery adds zest to the determination to make them do so. The man in the yellow touring car was amazed to find that Sallie actually did permit him to drive her home and no farther. He had anticipated that run round the park at least once—probably twice—possibly three times. He had even anticipated a cozy supper at which, across a table not too wide, he could drink deep of a pair of well-like blue eyes shaded with gold. But Sallie gave him her address, ten blocks from the theater, and though he urged with all the masculine dominance of which he was capable, she got out of the car in front of a brownstone house sagging as if with the weight of its own years.
The man looked up the steep steps to where a flicker of gaslight sifted on the broken mosaics of the vestibule.
“Is this where you live?” he queried, still holding the hand by which he had helped her.
Sallie nodded, adding as she tried to withdraw the hand, “Thanks ever so much.”
“Here—just a minute!” He drew her back. “You haven’t told me your name yet!”
“Zara May.”
“On-the-level name, I mean.”
[259]
] “Oh”—she flashed him a smile—“that one’s good enough.”
“Peaches and cream would fit better!” came in quick response.
She jerked her hand away. “Good-night, Mr.—Mr.—”