“Are you a gentleman or are you a—a—”
“Don’t say it, Duchess. Don’t! Remember what Tennyson says: ‘One hasty line may blast a budding hope.’ Or was it Burleson? When you deny to the companion of your wanderings the privilege of knowing your name, what can he do but fall back for guidance upon that infallible chapter in the Gents’ Handbook of Classy Behavior, entitled, ‘From Introduction’s Uncertainties to Friendship’s Fascinations’?”
“We haven’t even been introduced,” she pointed out.
“Pardon me. We have. By the greatest of all Masters of Ceremonies, Old Man Chance. Heaven knows what it may lead to,” he added piously. “Now, Miss—or Lady—or Sister, as the case may be; or even Sis (I believe that form is given in the Gents’ Handbook), if you will put your lily hand in mine—”
“Wait. Promise me not to call me any of those awful things during luncheon, and afterward I may tell you my name. It depends.”
“A test! I’m on. We’re off.”
Mr. Martin Dyke proved himself capable of selecting a suitable repast from an alien-appearing menu. In the course of eating it they pooled their real-estate impressions and information. He revealed that there was no available spot fit to dwell in on the West Side, or in mid-town. She had explored Park Avenue and the purlieus thereof extensively and without success. There remained only the outer darkness to the southward for anything which might meet the needs of either. In the event of a discovery they agreed, on her insistence, to gamble for it by the approved method of the tossed coin: “The winner has the choice.”
Throughout the luncheon the girl approved her escort’s manner and bearing as unexceptionable. No sooner had they entered into the implied intimacy of the tête-à-tête across a table than a subtle change manifested itself in his attitude. Gayety was still the keynote of his talk, but the note of the personal and insistent had gone. And, at the end, when he had paid the bill and she asked:
“What’s my share, please?”
“Two-ten,” he replied promptly and without protest.