"It is already forgotten." Strangely enough and with unspoken accord they took to walking then at a clip that was almost a rush and created quite a wind in their faces. It was their first meeting out of office and here they were half running through a cool and winey half darkness and utterly without destination. She stopped abruptly at West Fourteenth Street, beyond the thunder of the Sixth Avenue Elevated and where the sky line began to dip down toward the piers. "Good night," she said, throwing back her head to look up at him from under the low brim of sailor. He whipped off his resiliently soft hat, hugging it under one arm. "Of course," he said, "of course," mopping at his forehead and so unstrung that she could have laughed. "I'm sorry. I beg your pardon. Is this where you live?" They were before a greasily lighted taxidermist's window of mounted raccoon, fox terrior with legs curled for running, and an owl on a branch. "No," she said, eying the owl, "I don't live here," and were both off into a gale of laughter that swept down the barriers of self-restraint. "We've both been walking it off," she said, easily. "Here is where I turn for home." He caught her hand. "D-don't go. I'd be so grateful--so grateful if you'd have dinner with me to-night." "Nonsense!" she said, amazed at her fluency of manner. "You're a bit unstrung, that's all. Look in at your club or a show." "Please." "All right," she said, suddenly, on a little click of teeth. "I'll come--this once." "You're a brick," he cried, releasing her hand with a grateful pressure. She was excited out of all proportions to the event, flushing up with a sense of adventure and crowded moment. He began to scan for a cab. "Let's walk." "Not a bit of it," bringing one down with a cane. "We're out on a party." "But--" "No buts," helping her in and climbing in after. "Waldorf." "I'm too shirtwaisted." "Nothing of the kind. You're as trim as a dime. I like those waists you wear. They make you look smooth--shining. That's it, you've a shine to you." The odor of another drive in an open cab through this same snarl of traffic was winding about her like mist. That doctor's outer office with its row of thoughtful chairs. Rembrandt's "Night-Watch." That frenzied moment of finding the lock! The run up two flights. She sat forward on the slippery leather seat. "I--I shouldn't have come." "If you're serious, of course I'll take you home. But I can't tell you how much I want you not to feel that way." She sat back again. "I'm behaving like a shop girl." They both laughed again and complete thaw set in.