The court outside the stage entrance was a bobbing mass of umbrellas.
Groups of girls, pulling their wraps on as they came, tripped noisily
down the steps, greeting waiting cavaliers, or hurrying off alone in
various directions.
"That's Mac's horn," said Birdie, "a long toot and two short ones. I'd
know it in Halifax!"
At the curbing the usual altercation arose between Mac and Birdie as to
how they should sit. The latter refused to sit on the front seat for fear
of getting wet, and Mac refused to let Monte drive.
"Oh, I don't mind getting wet!" cried Nance with a fine show of
indifference. "That's what a rain-coat's for."
When Mac had dexterously backed his machine out of its close quarters,
and was threading his way with reckless skill through the crowded
streets, he said softly, without turning his head:
"I think I rather like you, Nance Molloy!"
CHAPTER XX
WILD OATS
The tenth annual carnival ball, under the auspices of a too-well-known
political organization, was at its midnight worst. It was one of those
conglomerate gatherings, made up of the loose ends of the city--ward
politicians, girls from the department stores, Bohemians with an unsated
thirst for diversion, reporters, ostensibly looking for copy, women just
over the line of respectability, sometimes on one side, sometimes on the
other, and the inevitable sprinkling of well-born youths who regard such
occasions as golden opportunities for seeing that mysterious phantom
termed "life.
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