"Miss Erith's car."

"Thanks," grunted Vaux, climbing into the pretty coupe and cuddling
his shanks under a big mink robe, where, presently, he discovered a
foot-warmer, and embraced it vigorously between his patent-leather
shoes.

It had now become the coldest night on record in New York City.
Fortunately he didn't know that; he merely sat there and hated Fate.

Up the street and into Fifth Avenue glided the car and sped
northward through the cold, silvery lustre of the arc-lights hanging
like globes of moonlit ice from their frozen stalks of bronze.

The noble avenue was almost deserted; nobody cared to face such
terrible cold. Few motors were abroad, few omnibuses, and scarcely a
wayfarer. Every sound rang metallic in the black and bitter air; the
windows of the coupe clouded from his breath; the panels creaked.

At the Plaza he peered fearfully out upon the deserted Circle, where
the bronze lady of the fountain, who is supposed to represent
Plenty, loomed high in the electric glow, with her magic basket
piled high with icicles.

"Yes, plenty of ice," sneered Vaux. "I wish she'd bring us a hod or
two of coal."

The wintry landscape of the Park discouraged him profoundly.