"Yes," says Warrie.
"Same to you," says Valentina. "Good-by."
They shook hands once more—sort of a long, lingerin' shake, with their eyes steady to each other; and then—well, then I steers Valentina out past the grinnin' cloak-room boys and stows her in the taxi. She didn't have much to say on the way down. Nor I. And, take it from me, it's some ride from the Tarleton down to Pier 9, East River.
First thing next morning Mr. Robert wants to know how the reunion passed off, and he listens bug-eyed as I describes the way we rung in on the dinner-party with Gladys.
"The deuce you did!" says he. "Just like Warrie to do that, though. But, if I know Miss Prentice at all, she will pay him back for that little prank."
"Now you've said something!" says I.
"And Valentina," he adds reflectively, "is on her way back to Sand Spur, is she?"
"I expect that's where she belongs," says I; "and yet—"
"Well, yet what?" demands Mr. Robert, sort of quizzin'.
"I was only thinkin'," says I, "that if the cards could have been shuffled different, with Gladys startin' in Sand Spur and Valentina on the Avenue, Warrie might not have so many yawns comin' to him across the dinner-table. But then, maybe Elmer of the Swamp deserves some lucky breaks. Who knows?"