She met me at the steps, hooded and veiled, and, with a pretty air of possession which made my heart leap, instructed the doorman to have “the trunk put into the tonneau, please.” A minute later we were off, Mrs. “Ted” watching our departure and calling out: “Remember! I consider myself responsible for Miss Gans until she is with Mrs. Page!”
“Miss Gans” and “Mrs. Page”! Even to my dull comprehension those formalities conveyed their warning. A quickened sense of how I stood toward the slender girl, nestled so comfortably in the seat beside me, stimulated my determination to do nothing, to say nothing, which she could recall to my shame when—when the time came.
I must have administered my intentions with strictness; for, presently, she said, suppressing the suspicion of a yawn: “Are you so very tired? Am I such dreadfully slow company?”
“Neither,” I said, with emphasis, and stopped there.
She laughed. “You meant to say both. But the automobile does make one silent, doesn’t it? And contented, too. I shall look back on this evening for a long time to come.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the pleasure of your company.”
She became very grave over my statement. “If you really mean that, I am very glad,” she said. “For I like you, Mr. Page, ’deed I do. And I will confess you are very different from the picture I had made of you—for myself.”
“For yourself?” I began, quickly, but caught myself and added, with unimpeachable politeness: “I am flattered that I should improve on acquaintance.”