A duet of laughter hung briefly in the air.

With all the blood in his head, Martin, coming out of utter
surprise, made a dash for the retreating car, collided with the
porter and stood ruefully and self-consciously over the burly figure
that had gone down with a crash upon the pavement.

It was no use. Joan had been one too many for him. What, in any
case, was the good of trying to follow? She preferred Palgrave. She
had no use, at that moment, for home. She was bored at the mere idea
of talking things over. She was not serious. She refused to be faced
up with seriousness. She was like a precocious child who snapped her
fingers at authority and pursued the policy of the eel at the
approach of discipline. What had she cried out that night in the
dark with her chin tilted up and her arms thrown out? "I shall go
joy-riding in that huge round-about. If I can get anybody to pay my
score, good. If not, I'll pay it myself, whatever it costs. My
motto's going to be 'A good time as long as I can get it, and who
cares for the price!'"

Martin helped the porter to his feet, stanched his flow of County
Kerry reproaches with a ten-dollar bill and went back into the
Crystal Room. He had gone there half an hour ago with a party of
young people to kill loneliness and forget a bad hour of despair.
His friend, Howard Oldershaw, who had breezed him out of the reading
room of the Yale Club, was one of the party. He was in the first
flush of speed-breaking and knew the town and its midnight haunts.
He had offered to show Martin the way to get rid of depression.
Right! He should be put to the test. Two could play the "Who cares?"