"We must have been here three hours!" the girl suddenly exclaimed in tones of deep contrition. "Half the people must have gone. I've deliberately cut every man on the last half of my card," she rattled on., "thereby completely ruining my chances of ever marrying any of them; and besides," she concluded limply, "what will Mrs. Pallet-Searing have to say ..."
"How did we get here anyway?" questioned the young man.
"I led the way," confessed the girl, opining wide her eyes, and glancing daringly into his. "Mrs. Pallet-Searing says that this place is a trap; and, that Pallet-Searing says, that she's a terribly designing woman. She says that he says that more—more matches have been made on account of this moonlit spot than in any other place in the Borough of Manhattan."
The face of Eliot Beekman flushed, his eyes were unnaturally bright. If only he had dared, with his strong right arm he would have drawn the dainty head of Leslie Wilkinson down on his shoulder and would have kissed her then and there. But he understood the girl too well—or thought he did.
"A match-making cosy-corner," he mused. "How many others have you fetched here before—have preceded me?"
Leslie laughingly rose and stood looking down upon him.
"You're quite the first, I assure you, Mr. Beekman," she answered, still smiling.
"Are you—are you sure?" he faltered, becoming suddenly serious.
"Quite sure," she answered, catching his mood.
Beekman rose, the flush deepening on his face. His breath came fast.