Beatty's hand squeezed hers.
"Your Freddie sure will do that for you," he said. "Let's go upstairs now, and figure out what we'll need."
Daisy suffered him to pull her out of her chair by the hand he held. Still retaining it, he led her out of the dining-room, along the hall, and up the stairway. At the top, she halted—fetching her companion, who had kept right on going, to a standstill with a jerk.
"Come on, come on," he said, making his tone matter-of-course, "the room is No. 19."
"What's the number of my room?" said Daisy, regarding him pleasantly but with a kind of odd under-gleam in her eyes.
"Y—your room!" Even Beatty, the inured, was embarrassed by that searching, direct look. "Why, I—I—darned if I remember the number."
Daisy continued to look at him a moment; then the shine in her eyes was succeeded by a twinkle, and this by a promising, coaxing side-glance.
"Well, then, let's go into the women's sitting-room, Freddie—this time."
Beatty knew when to yield a point—so he flattered himself.
"All right, Sweetest," he said, "you're the doctor—always."