She made no further resistance and directly he was slamming the door behind her. He had caught a glimpse of black-silk stocking above a white buckskin pump that somehow disturbed his poise. As he walked around to the other side of the car he was wondering where it was he had seen her before. He could not remember. He climbed into his place behind the steering wheel and observed her again. It was a setting that became her. Her shyness seemed to have all vanished. She was powdering her nose as he climbed in; a silver vanity case lay open on her lap. He noticed it, saw a hairpin and two nickles and a card or two. She had said she might take a taxi. Directly she was smiling into his eyes. It made him just a little bit giddy in spite of himself. How old was she, he wondered? For a moment he busied himself with the car. There was nothing made up about her; it was a clear case of good looks. And she knew how to wear her clothes. "I think I'm terrible," she was saying. "How?" he answered, hardly hearing her. "Letting you take me up this way." She finished her renovation to her evident satisfaction and packed away the puff with a snap. "You couldn't expect to manage those bundles any other way," he assured confidently and quietly. It was an amusing game. She gazed off toward the corner and wetted her lips. He started the car. They turned the corner into Fourth Street and moved south. As if sensing the need of further explanation here on the esplanade, where all seemed acquainted, she began in a slightly more animated tone: "Of course, it's not like we had never met." He felt she was looking at him, but being busy with the car he was silent. "I really believe you've forgotten." He caught a glance at her. She looked charmingly provoked. The fact that she was centring her attention on him was in itself flattering. "Not at all," he assured her and wondered to what she referred. "It was at the American Legion Ball," she reminded him. And then he remembered. It all came back to him. It had been a dismal evening, way back in April. He had noticed her that evening. She had worn a weird thing of silver and black. She had even sat beside him on a sofa by the door--she and her partner. But he had not met her; he was sure of that. He had remarked, he remembered now, how curiously alert her eyes were, how alive, taking everything in. "You were in uniform," she continued. "Yes," he replied. Nearly every man present had been. For a few moments silence. Then reaching Broadway and less traffic they rolled along a little more easily, with less tension. "I'm Myrtle Macomber," she at length essayed. "In case you had forgotten." Joe grinned. Then he turned to her, "And my name's Hooper." She gave him another one of her roguish glances through her lashes. "I was trying to remember," she laughed.