Mary Louise satisfied herself with waving her hand to him as they started. His aloofness forbade her to do anything more, though she would have liked to go to him and tell him how sorry she was and to be sure and hurry and put on some dry clothes. But she didn't and she saw him standing in the centre of the passage, a forlorn figure. It struck her as they rolled out on to the street that he had made no effort whatever to sell the car. "Cold-blooded crowd," broke out Claybrook at length as they hurried on. "I do hope he won't be sick," she replied. He grunted. "In the army, wasn't he? Guess he can stand a little water. Used to worse than that." And after apparently waiting for her to break the silence, he again ventured, "I like the car. Think I'll have to see if I can't make some sort of deal with them. They'll probably come down a little off their perch." His tone seemed to invite her opinion, but she offered none. They came into the stiff little parlour lobby of Mary Louise's apartment. It was quite dark as they got out of the automobile, and the stuffy room was dimly lit by a few feeble incandescent lamps in loose-jointed and rather forlorn gilt wall brackets. They made their way over to the elevator. The lobby was empty; even the blonde was absent from her post. As they passed the faded plush divan Claybrook laid a detaining hand on her arm: "Sit down here a minute. I want to talk to you." His voice sounded rather gentle and subdued. She turned and looked at him, wondering, and then obeyed. "Listen," he began, and laid his hand quietly on hers. "Don't get sore at me because I was the cause of your friend's getting wet. It won't hurt him--just a little clothes-pressing bill--and I'd much rather he had that than for that car to slide off the cliff--especially when you were in it." She felt somewhat mollified. "Was that what you wanted to say to me?" She looked at his face and saw there an odd expression--a sort of dogged shamefacedness. "No. I was just getting to it." He was silent a moment, staring at his foot. Suddenly he looked up at her--she had withdrawn her hand. "When," he began, "when are we going to call this thing a game?" "I don't understand what you mean." He halted. "Well," he said. "How--when are you going to marry me?" He was looking into her face with that same queer, stubborn expression. Her heart stopped momentarily. "Why," she faltered, "I hadn't thought of it." They sat there in the hushed lobby as remote from the world as though shipwrecked on a desert island. It was Mary Louise who now looked at the floor. She could feel Claybrook's eyes upon her. He was waiting for her to speak, but she could not collect her thoughts. It had come upon her baldly, without preparation. She scarcely realized the import of his words. "Well," he was saying, "think of it now." Another pause.