But feminine imagination, given full rein, took the bit between its teeth and galloped beyond Sallie’s control. She spoke of champagne supper parties and a house on Long Island and sables, with the largesse of an “Arabian Nights.” She tasted the sweets of seeing baby blue eyes and impudent black ones dilate with envy as the other girls gathered round. She swept on, heedless of sharp [271] ]turns ahead, and not until the callboy shouted the half hour did she halt.
At the curb that night she found a gray roadster barking its haste to be off like a pert pomeranian. Mr. J. F. Patterson stepped out, then stopped short with a gasp as he took in the glory of her. She gave him her hand—and waited. To her amazement he said not a word, merely helped her into the car. It snorted and raced up Broadway. Still not a word! She snuggled into the low seat, turned to look up at him. He was frowning.
“What’s the matter, Jimmie?”
“Nothing.”
“Something is.”
“Nothing, I tell you.” His tone was brusque. The frown settled deeper, bringing brows together.
Sallie’s eyes filled. She had pictured something so different—Jimmie bounding with delight when he saw her! Jimmie covering her with admiration!
But his mood did not change. Throughout the ride he brooded, silent, absorbed—though she tried desperately to make conversation.
“Is this a new car, Jimmie?”
“No.”