When she finished they sat for a moment in silence she draping the last skeins of a Welsh rabbit on her fork and waiting for him to speak. "Let's get out of here," he said suddenly. Marcia's eyes hardened. "What's the idea? Am I making you sick?" "No, but I don't like it here. I don't like to be sitting here with you." Without another word Marcia signalled for the waiter. "What's the check?" she demanded briskly "My part--the rabbit and the ginger ale." Horace watched blankly as the waiter figured it. "See here," he began, "I intended to pay for yours too. You're my guest." With a half-sigh Marcia rose from the table and walked from the room. Horace, his face a document in bewilderment, laid a bill down and followed her out, up the stairs and into the lobby. He overtook her in front of the elevator and they faced each other. "See here," he repeated "You're my guest. Have I said something to offend you?" After an instant of wonder Marcia's eyes softened. "You're a rude fella!" she said slowly. "Don't you know you're rude?" "I can't help it," said Horace with a directness she found quite disarming. "You know I like you." "You said you didn't like being with me." "I didn't like it." "Why not?" Fire blazed suddenly from the gray forests of his eyes. "Because I didn't. I've formed the habit of liking you. I've been thinking of nothing much else for two days." "Well, if you---" "Wait a minute," he interrupted. "I've got something to say. It's this: in six weeks I'll be eighteen years old. When I'm eighteen years old I'm coming up to New York to see you. Is there some place in New York where we can go and not have a lot of people in the room?" "Sure!" smiled Marcia. "You can come up to my 'partment. Sleep on the couch if you want to." "I can't sleep on couches," he said shortly. "But I want to talk to you." "Why, sure," repeated Marcia, "in my 'partment." In his excitement Horace put his hands in his pockets. "All right--just so I can see you alone. I want to talk to you as we talked up in my room." "Honey boy," cried Marcia, laughing, "is it that you want to kiss me?" "Yes," Horace almost shouted. "I'll kiss you if you want me to." The elevator man was looking at them reproachfully. Marcia edged toward the grated door. "I'll drop you a post-card," she said. Horace's eyes were quite wild. "Send me a post-card! I'll come up any time after January first. I'll be eighteen then." And as she stepped into the elevator he coughed enigmatically, yet with a vague challenge, at the calling, and walked quickly away. III