"Yes—just a stab at it, pure amateur.... I'm not at all sure I'm just making-believe when I speak of blue bowls and so on. Tell me. In the West, one would speak of 'seeing the girls home.' How would one say that gracefully in New-Yorkese, so that I might have the chance to beguile Miss Olive Dunleavy and Miss Ruth Winslow into letting me see them home?"
"Really, we're not a bit afraid to go home alone."
"I won't tease, but——May I come to your house for tea, some time?"
She hesitated. It came out with a rush. "Yes. Do come up. N-next Sunday, if you'd like."
She bobbed her head to Olive and rose.
"And the address?" he insisted.
"—— West Ninety-second Street.... Good night. I have enjoyed the blue bowl."
Carl made his decent devoirs to his hostess and tramped up-town through the flying snow, swinging his stick like an orchestra conductor, and whistling a waltz.
As he reached home he thought again of his sordid parting with Gertie in the Park—years ago, that afternoon. But the thought had to wait in the anteroom of his mind while he rejoiced over the fact that he was to see his new playmate the coming Sunday.