"Twenty-one. Beyond the age of consent—for drinks. It's all right; I know how to say 'when' to a bottle. And I'm not so old but that you might call me Cissie if you like. I think it would help pass the time."
"And as I'm still short of forty, I suppose, on the same principle, you'd better call me Cary."
"How nicely you play back! And Pat told me you were slow; nice, but slow."
At the mention of Pat's name a little surge of anger and contempt went through Scott's veins. But he answered lightly: "I'm a plodding old party, it's true. But I do my best. Now, as to practical details I'm afraid that the Ritz would draw the line at champagne."
"That's a blow."
"But I bethink me that there's a locker at a Country Club up toward the frozen north that I have entry to, if that isn't too far."
"If you'd said Albany it wouldn't be too far for me."
"What would be too far for you, Cissie?"
She gave him her eyes, alight with gleams of mirth and appreciation. "Don't let me stop you," she laughed. "There are days when my brakes need re-lining. Let's go!"
Throughout the drive, Cissie alternated between urging her companion to put more speed on the car, and light, slangy, clever, suggestive chatter about theatres, athletics, movies, and the sort of thing that fills the society columns of the daily newspapers. At the luncheon she drank two cocktails, half of the pint of champagne which was all that she would permit to be provided, and then declared herself fit for life again. "What'll we do now?" was her way of putting it.