We entered the street and as we did so great gusts of snow-laden wind came down. A blizzard had got up during the process of the game and drove against us in breath-taking, blinding swirls.
“How are you going to get home?” asked my cavalier of his jolly friend.
“Walk,” she answered.
“Walking through the storm is fine fun for the young and active———”
“But grass widows of uncertain age had better take a cab, eh?”
“I should think so.” How horribly frank Mr. Bang is; but then Mrs. Malone seemed to take it as a joke. “Wait here and see if I can engage one,” and away he went leaving me with her. We tried to put our backs against the storm but this ended in our tramping round and round, for the immense building seemed so to twist the wind that it came from every direction at once.
“Glorious, isn’t it?” laughed Mrs. Malone.
“Yes,” I gasped.
“There is not a cab to be had,” announced the spectral figure of Mr. Bang, as he loomed up out of the storm. “We’ll see you home; you’re good for it, are you not, Little Partner?”
So we, notwithstanding her protests, walked home with Mrs. Malone and sought temporary refuge in her flat, whence Mr. Bang telephoned for a sleigh and in due course he and I arrived home. Mrs. Malone kissed me as I left her, so no doubt I have a place in her regard, even after all allowance is made for the warmth of her Irish heart.