They both looked cautiously at Ruhannah, who sat motionless, absorbed in the turmoil of vehicles and people.
Brandes’ face slowly reddened; he dropped one hand on Stull’s shoulder and said, between thin lips that scarcely moved:
“She’s all I’m interested in. You don’t think much of her, Ben. She isn’t painted. She isn’t dolled up the way you like ’em. But there isn’t anything else that matters very much to me. All I want in the world is 85 sitting in that runabout, looking out of her kid eyes at a thousand or two people who ain’t worth the pair of run-down shoes she’s wearing.”
But Stull’s expression remained sardonic and unconvinced.
So Brandes got into his car and took the wheel; and Stull watched them threading a tortuous path through the traffic tangle of Broadway.
They sped past the great hotels, along crowded sidewalks, along the park, and out into an endless stretch of highway where hundreds of other cars were travelling in the same direction.
“Did you have a good time?” he inquired, shifting his cigar and keeping his narrow eyes on the road.
“Yes; it was beautiful—exciting.”
“Some horse, Nick Stoner! Some race, eh?”
“I was so excited—with everybody standing up and shouting. And such beautiful horses—and such pretty women in their wonderful dresses! I—I never knew there were such things.”