“Well, would you mind--would it be an awful bother for you to--to take me home to-night?” (this extreme diffidence was a charming affectation on Edith’s part--she knew that the red-fat man would immediately dissolve into a paroxysm of delight). “Bother? Why, good Lord, I’d be darn glad to! You know I’d be darn glad to.” “Thanks _loads_! You’re awfully sweet.” She glanced at her wrist-watch. It was half-past one. And, as she said “half-past one” to herself, it floated vaguely into her mind that her brother had told her at luncheon that he worked in the office of his newspaper until after one-thirty every evening. Edith turned suddenly to her current partner. “What street is Delmonico’s on, anyway?” “Street? Oh, why Fifth Avenue, of course.” “I mean, what cross street?” “Why--let’s see--it’s on Forty-fourth Street.” This verified what she had thought. Henry’s office must be across the street and just around the corner, and it occurred to her immediately that she might slip over for a moment and surprise him, float in on him, a shimmering marvel in her new crimson opera cloak and “cheer him up.” It was exactly the sort of thing Edith revelled in doing--an unconventional, jaunty thing. The idea reached out and gripped at her imagination--after an instant’s hesitation she had decided. “My hair is just about to tumble entirely down,” she said pleasantly to her partner; “would you mind if I go and fix it?” “Not at all.” “You’re a peach.” A few minutes later, wrapped in her crimson opera cloak, she flitted down a side-stairs, her cheeks glowing with excitement at her little adventure. She ran by a couple who stood at the door--a weak-chinned waiter and an over-rouged young lady, in hot dispute--and opening the outer door stepped into the warm May night. VII The over-rouged young lady followed her with a brief, bitter glance--then turned again to the weak-chinned waiter and took up her argument. “You better go up and tell him I’m here,” she said defiantly, “or I’ll go up myself.” “No, you don’t!” said George sternly. The girl smiled sardonically. “Oh, I don’t, don’t I? Well, let me tell you I know more college fellas and more of ’em know me, and are glad to take me out on a party, than you ever saw in your whole life.” “Maybe so--” “Maybe so,” she interrupted. “Oh, it’s all right for any of ’em like that one that just ran out--God knows where _she_ went--it’s all right for them that are asked here to come or go as they like--but when I want to see a friend they have some cheap, ham-slinging, bring-me-a-doughnut waiter to stand here and keep me out.” “See here,” said the elder Key indignantly, “I can’t lose my job. Maybe this fella you’re talkin’ about doesn’t want to see you.” “Oh, he wants to see me all right.” “Anyways, how could I find him in all that crowd?” “Oh, he’ll be there,” she asserted confidently. “You just ask anybody for Gordon Sterrett and they’ll point him out to you. They all know each other, those fellas.”