“Oh, I tell you I don't remember,” said Oliver vaguely. “A big one with a lot of electric lights.” The policeman's face became suddenly very red. “Well, you move on, buddy!” he said in a tone of hoarse displeasure. “You move right on! You don't come around me with any of your funny cracks--I know whatsa matter with you, all right, all right. I know whatsa matter with you.” “So do I.” Oliver was smiling a little now, the whole scene was so arabesque. “I want to go to my hotel.” “You move on. You move on _quick_!” said the policeman vastly. “It's a long walk down to the hoosegow and _I_ don't want to take you there.” “I don't want to go there,” said Oliver. “But my hotel--” “_Quit arguin'”_! said the policeman in a bark like a teased bulldog. Oliver turned and walked two steps away. Then he turned again. After all why not? The important part of his life was over anyhow--and before the rest of it finished he might be able to tell one large policeman just what he thought of him. “Why, you big blue boob,” he began abruptly with a sense of pleasant refreshment better than drink, “You great heaving purple ice wagon--” and then he was stopped abruptly for the policeman was taking the necessary breath away. XVII About which time Nancy had finished crying--raging at herself all the time, she hated to cry so--and was sitting up straight on the couch looking at the door which Oliver had shut as if by looking it very hard indeed she could make it turn into Oliver. It _couldn't_ end this way. If it did it just meant that all the last year wasn't real--hadn't any more part in reality than charity theatricals. And they'd both of them been so sure that it was the chief reality that they had ever known. He wasn't _reasonable_. She hadn't wanted the darned old job, she'd wanted to marry him, but as long as they hadn't seemed to get very far in the last eight months when he'd been trying to work it--why couldn't _she_ try---- Then 'Oh Nancy, be honest!' to herself. No, that wasn't true. She'd wanted the job, wanted to get it, hadn't thought about Oliver particularly when she'd tried for it except to be a little impatient with him for not using more judgment when he picked out his job. Did that mean that she didn't love him? Oh Lord, it was all so mixed up. Starting out so clearly at first and everything being so perfect--and then the last four months and both getting tireder and tireder and all the useless little misunderstandings that made you wonder how could you if you really cared. And now this.