“Oh, I remember,” he said dully.
While the waitress was away bringing the change, he shoved the rest of the money across the table to Pidge, but she pushed it back, saying quietly:
“I want you to fix up the room rent and get a night train west. We’ll say no more.”
His lips whitened under a curious tightening.
“Let’s get out in the dark,” he said roughly.
They walked back to Eighth Street and over to the Avenue, entering the Square that way. The sooty grass was soft and damp; the faintest trace of fog among the trees.
“You’ve got something on me,” he was saying strangely. “You’re not like a girl, but like a woman and a pal, too. You had something on me last night, or I wouldn’t have fallen for you that way.”
“When you get back to that Cleveland room—perhaps a real story will come of all this.”
“A real story,” he repeated.
His eyes were bright and the pallor of his face intense enough to be visible. She was conscious of his inimitable charm as his head inclined to her and she heard his words in the lowest possible tone: