"I suppose we must go," she said reluctantly.
Tavernake paid his bill and they turned into the street. She
took his arm and they turned westward. Even out here, the
atmosphere of the restaurant appeared to have found its way. The
soberness of life, its harder and more practical side, was for
the moment obscured. It was not the daytime crowd, this, whose
footsteps pressed the pavements. The careworn faces of the
money-seekers had vanished. The men and women to whom life was
something of a struggle had sought their homes--resting, perhaps,
before they took up their labors again. Every moment taxicabs
and motor-cars whirled by, flashing upon the night a momentary
impression of men in evening dress, of women in soft garments
with jewels in their hair. The spirit of pleasure seemed to have
crept into the atmosphere. Even the poorer people whom they
passed in the street, were laughing or singing.
Tavernake stopped short.
"To-night," he declared, "is not the night for omnibuses. We are
going to have a taxicab. I know that you are tired."
"I should love it," she admitted.
They hailed one and drove off. Beatrice leaned back among the
cushions and closed her eyes, her ungloved hand rested almost
caressingly upon his. He leaned forward. There were new things
in the world--he was sure of it now, sure though they were coming
to him through the mists, coming to him so vaguely that even
while he obeyed he did not understand.
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