She nearly swooned then. Her soul rummaged frantically through a brain like her own work-basket. She finally dug up an excuse.
“I'd rather meet you at the restaurant.”
Ferriday smiled. He understood. The poor thing was ashamed of her boarding-house.
“Well, Cinderella, let me send my pumpkin for you, at least. I won't come. Where shall my chauffeur find you?”
Kedzie whimpered the shabby number of the shabby street.
“Shall he ask for Miss Adair, or—”
Kedzie was inspired: “I live in Mrs. Gilfoyle's flat-partment.”
“I see,” said Ferriday. “Miss Anita Adair—ring Mrs. Gilfoyle's bell. All right, my angel, at seven. Run along.”
He kissed her, and she was ice-cold. But then women were often like that before Ferriday's genius.