She half formed the phrases in which she would describe to Paul their racing down the long boulevard beside the beach, the salty air, and the darkness, and the long white lines of foam upon the breakers. This, she realized with exultation, was a joy-ride. She had read the word in newspapers, but its aptness had never before struck her.
It was astounding to find, after a rush through the darkness of the park, that the car was stopping. Every one was getting out. Amazed and trying to conceal her amazement, she went with them through a blaze of light into another restaurant where another orchestra played the same gay music and dancers whirled beyond a film of cigarette smoke. They sat down at a round bare table, and Helen perceived that one must order something to drink.
She listened to the rapid orders, hesitating. "Blue moons" were intriguing, and "slow gin fizz" was fascinating, with its suggestion of fireworks. But beside her Mr. Kennedy said, "Scotch high-ball," and the waiter took her hesitation for repetition. The glass appeared before her, there was a cry of "Happy days!" and she swallowed a queer-tasting, stinging mouthful. She set the glass down hastily.
"What's the matter with the high-ball?" Mr. Kennedy inquired. He had paid the waiter, and she felt the obligation of a guest.
"It's very good really. But I don't care much for drinks that are fizzy," she said. She saw a faint amusement in his eyes, but he did not smile, and his order to the waiter was peremptory. "Plain high-ball here, no seltzer." The waiter hastened to bring it.
Mr. Kennedy's attention was still upon her, and she saw no escape. She smiled at him over the glass. "Happy days!" she said, and drank. She set down the empty glass and the muscles of her throat choked back a cough. "Thank you," she said, and was surprised to find that the weariness was no longer in his eyes.
"You're all right!" he said. His tone was that of the vanquished greeting the victor, and his next words were equally enigmatic. "I hate a bluffer that doesn't make good when he's called!" The orchestra had swung into a new tune, and he half rose. "Dance?"
It was hard to admit her deficiency and let him go.
"I can't. I don't know how."
He sat down.