“Patterson. Jimmie Fowler Patterson. You’ll notice I’m not so stingy as somebody else!”
She caught hold of the rusty iron railing.
He sprang into the car. “Well, I can wait! See you to-morrow, Miss Zara May.”
Two emotions played havoc with her dreams that night—exultation over the girls and fear. As through her narrow rear window she watched the patch of dull blue mellow into dull gray, she assured herself that to-morrow she would do nothing more than walk past the yellow car with a pleasant “Good-evening.”
But of course she didn’t. Not to-morrow—nor any other night that found it waiting at the stage entrance. And that became every night.
In the chorus dressing-room an aura of new interest surrounded her. That car commanded respect. Miss Mariette even restrained her inclination to persiflage until one evening some ten days later when Sallie came in after the final act and caught her hunched on the floor, back up, meowing with all her might while the alley cat reposed over one ear.
All the old wounds tore open. The blood gushed to Sallie’s head. She grabbed the hat and slapped Miss Mariette’s face, leaving the latter too startled to retaliate in kind. And when Mr. Patterson begged her as he [260] ]did each evening to drive out to supper, she stepped into the car, throat too full for speech.
He gave a broad grin. “Shall we make it up the Drive and back to Montmartre?”
“I’d just rather ride if you don’t mind.”
They spun up Broadway, through Seventy-second Street and into the enveloping shadows of Riverside. The moon was up, a new crescent streaking its modest trail across the water. On the opposite shore the chain of lights was a necklace of clustering jewels laid on the plush of night.