“You’ll telephone me when you get home?” he reminded her, baffled but smiling.
She laughed and nodded. The cab wheeled out into the street, backed, turned, and sped away eastward.
Half an hour later his telephone rang:
“Garry, dear?”
“Is it you, Thessa?”
“Yes. I’m going to bed.... Tell Mr. Westmore that I’m not at all sure I shall meet him at the Ritz on Monday.”
“He’ll go, anyway.”
“Will he? What devotion. What faith in woman! What a lively capacity for hope eternal! What vanity! Well, then, tell him he may take his chances.”
“I’ll tell him. But I think you might make a date with me, too, you little fraud!”