He looked thoughtful at first, then interested, and at last he smiled,
reached over and patted her hand. "All right, Freddy," he said. "The
handsome thing shall be done."

The result was that at a quarter past one A.M., a night or two later, he
tipped the carriageman at the entrance to the smartest of Chicago's
supper restaurants, stepped into Martin's biggest limousine, and dropped
back on the cushions beside a girl he hardly knew.

"You wonder!" he said, as her hand slid into his. "I didn't know you
could shine like that. All the evening you've kept my heart in my
throat. I don't know a thing we've seen or eaten--hardly where we've
been."

"I do," she declared, "and I shall never forget it. Not one smallest
thing about it. You see, it's the first time anything like it ever
happened to me."

He exclaimed incredulously at that--wanted to know what she meant.

He felt the weight of her relaxed contented body, as she leaned closer
to him--felt her draw in a long slow sigh. "I don't know whether I can
talk sense to-night or not," she said, "but I'll try. Why, I've been
quite a lot at the theater, of course, and two or three times to the
restaurants. But never--oh, as if I belonged like that. It always seemed
a little wrong, and extravagant. And then, it's never lasted. After the
theater, or the dinner, I've walked over to the elevated, you know. So
this has been like--well, like flying in a dream, without any bumps to
wake me up. It sort of goes to my head just to be sitting here like
this, floating along home. Only--only, I wish it was to our home,