It seemed strange to him that a girl in her straits should have
devoted so much care to her hands.
"No," he answered deliberately, "I have no wish to hold your
hand. Why should I?"
"Look at me," she insisted.
He did so without embarrassment or hesitation,--it was more than
ever apparent that he was entirely truthful. She leaned back in
her chair, laughing softly to herself.
"Oh, my friend Mr. Leonard Tavernake," she exclaimed, "if you
were not so crudely, so adorably, so miraculously truthful, what
a prig, prig, prig, you would be! The cutlets at last, thank
goodness! Your cross-examination is over. I pronounce you 'Not
Guilty!"'
During the progress of the rest of the meal, they talked very
little. At its conclusion, Tavernake discharged the bill, having
carefully checked each item and tipped the waiter the exact
amount which the man had the right to expect. They ascended the
stairs together to the street, the girl lingering a few steps
behind. On the pavement her fingers touched his arm.
"I wonder, would you mind driving me down to the Embankment?" she
asked almost humbly. "It was so close down there and I want some
air."
This was an extravagance which he had scarcely contemplated, but
he did not hesitate. He called a taxicab and seated himself by
her side. Her manner seemed to have grown quieter and more
subdued, her tone was no longer semi-belligerent.
"I will not keep you much longer," she promised.
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