May I?"
"What do you mean?"
He swallowed a sudden lump of panic. He felt that she knew what he
wanted.
"I mean, not at a tea table," he said.
"Well, all right, but not to-day. I want to get some exercise. Let's
walk!"
It was bitter and raw. All the evil hate in the mad heart of February
was wrought into the forlorn and icy wind that cut its way cruelly
across Central Park and down along Fifth Avenue. It was almost
impossible to talk, and discomfort made him distracted, so much so that
he turned at Sixty-first Street to find that she was no longer beside
him. He looked around. She was forty feet in the rear standing
motionless, her face half hidden in her fur coat collar, moved either by
anger or laughter--he could not determine which. He started back.
"Don't let me interrupt your walk!" she called.
"I'm mighty sorry," he answered in confusion. "Did I go too fast?"
"I'm cold," she announced. "I want to go home. And you walk too fast."
"I'm very sorry."
Side by side they started for the Plaza. He wished he could see her
face.
"Men don't usually get so absorbed in themselves when they're with me."
"I'm sorry.
Pages:
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154