The cool air outside seemed to gratify Ferriday and he took off his hat while the carriage-starter whistled up his car. Now Kedzie said:
“Please, Mr. Ferriday, just put me in a taxicab.”
“Nonsense! I'll take you home. I'll certainly take you home.”
“No, please; it's 'way out of your way, and I—I'd rather—really I would.”
Ferriday stared hard at her as if she were just a trifle blurred. He frowned; then he smiled.
“Why, bless your soul, if you'd rather I wouldn't oppose you, I wouldn't—not for worlds. But you sha'n't go home in any old cabby taxishab; you'll take my wagon and I'll walk. The walk will do me good.”
Kedzie thought it would, too, so she consented with appropriate reluctance. He lifted her in and closed the door—then leaned in to laugh:
“Give my love to old Mrs. Gilfoyle. And don't fail to be at the shudio bright and early. We'll have to make sun while the hay shines, you know. Good night, Miss Adair!”
“Good night, Mr. Ferriday, and thank you ever so much for the perfectly lovely evening.”
“It has been l-l-lovely. Goo-ood night!”