into every booth in the big Bazaar; and when I'm tired out and
there's nothing left, I shall slip out of the endless procession
with a thousand things stored away in my memory. Isn't that the way
to live?"

From the superior height of twenty-four, Martin looked down on Joan
indulgently. He didn't take her frank and unblushing individualism
seriously. She was just a kid, he told himself. She was a girl who
had been caged up and held in. It was natural for her to say all
those wild things. She would alter her point of view as soon as the
first surprise of being free had worn off--and then he would speak;
then he would ask her to throw in her lot with his and walk in step
with him along the street of adventure.

"I sha'n't see the sun rise on this great day," she said, letting a
yawn have full play. "I'm sleepy, Marty. I must lie down this very
instant, even if the floor's the only place you can offer me. Quick!
What else is there?" Before he could answer, she had caught sight of
a low, long, enticing divan, and onto this, with a gurgle of
pleasure, she made a dive, placed two cushions for her head, put one
little hand under her face, snuggled into an attitude of perfect
comfort and deliberately went to sleep. It was masterly.

Martin, not believing that she could turn off so suddenly at a
complete tangent, spoke to her once or twice but got no other answer
than a long, contented sigh. He stood for a little while trying to
make out her outline in the dim corner of the room. Then he tiptoed
out to the hall, possessed himself of a warm motor-rug, returned
with it and laid it gently and tenderly over the unconscious girl.