Ferriday, just put me in a taxicab."
"Nonsense! I'll take you home. I'll certainly take you home."
"No, please; it's 'way out of your way, and I--I'd rather--really
I would."
Ferriday stared hard at her as if she were just a trifle blurred.
He frowned; then he smiled.
"Why, bless your soul, if you'd rather I wouldn't oppose you, I
wouldn't--not for worlds. But you sha'n't go home in any old cabby
taxishab; you'll take my wagon and I'll walk. The walk will do me
good."
Kedzie thought it would, too, so she consented with appropriate
reluctance. He lifted her in and closed the door--then leaned in
to laugh:
"Give my love to old Mrs. Gilfoyle. And don't fail to be at the
shudio bright and early. We'll have to make sun while the hay
shines, you know. Good night, Miss Adair!"
"Good night, Mr. Ferriday, and thank you ever so much for the
perfectly lovely evening."
"It has been l-l-lovely. Goo-ood night!"
The car swept away and made a big turn. She saw Ferriday marching
grandiosely along the street, with his head bared to the cool
moonlight. She settled back and snuggled into the cushions,
imagining the car her very own.
She left her glory behind her as she climbed the long stairs,
briskly preparing her lies and her defensive temper for her
husband's wrathful greeting.
He was not there.
CHAPTER IX
Kedzie had no sooner rejoiced in the fortunate absence of her
husband than she began to worry because he was away.
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